Approximately 12-minute read time.

28

Tildy growled in frustration and threw a seat cushion across the room, unhappy that nothing heavier was near at hand. Feeling no better, she went to retrieve it. But instead of returning the cushion to the chair, tossed it over the balcony, imagining the surprised blacksmith as it fell near his forge. That reminded her of Marklin: she’d promised to meet him for more exploring. By the look of the clouds rolling in, she knew they’d be indoors. Catching a glance of the beautiful outfit in a mirror, she thought it was probably for the best.

A few minutes later, she met him in the entrance hall, the butterflies of the lavender dress dancing before her feet. Marklin gawped at her like she had mustard on her face. Normally, she would have rolled her eyes, but her emotions were all in a jumble.

“You look wonderful,” Marklin said.

“Cheers,” Tildy replied, though Ramora’s unexpected words hung upon her like the grey clouds over Southershard.

He pointed toward the hall’s displays with his staff and said, “Wanted to take another look at something.”

Her eyes followed his, seeing the alcove with its long black curtains. “The portraits of the king and queen?”

“Just a quick see,” Marklin said, the charm on his staff jingling as he ran ahead. “I’ve never seen what a king looks like, and the baroness went on and on about the queen’s beauty.”

“Wait,” she called, running after him. She caught his arm as he was about to part the first set of curtains. The outline of the king could be seen through the translucent material.

“What?” Marklin asked, releasing the cloth.

“It’s disrespectful, isn’t it?” Like intruding on something private.

“To what? Look at some paintings?”

“Well,” Tildy began, “Empyrelia still mourns.”

Marklin’s eyes searched her face for some hint of jest. She frowned and his smile faded. “Tildy, they’ve been gone for what, thirteen years? Isn’t that long enough? They’re dead. All their heirs are dead. Truly, the realm of the Lost Royals is dead, isn’t it?”

“I suppose. I dunno, it feels like playing in a graveyard.”

“I promise to be respectful, alright?”

“Alright.”

Marklin pulled back the curtains on the left to reveal a larger-than-life portrait that reached nearly floor to ceiling. “King Therald!” he announced, before adding a confused, “Was he a Giant?”

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Tildy laughed. He always made her feel more like herself. “No, I read they painted kings this way because they had to appear greater than the common folk.”

“Well done, then,” Marklin replied, his head moving as he studied the display.

Even so, Tildy could see the king was tall for a man, as she noticed a small table beside him. He wore lavish clothing of midnight’s blue, though bits of chainmail and armor peeked out at his collar and cuffs. His right hand held a scepter of cobalt and gold, while the other arm cradled a large leather-bound tome bearing an intricate symbol embossed on the cover.

Upon the second finger of his left hand, a thin Dragon with red-gold scales wrapped itself around like three rings. A golden crown, braided with interweaving silver cords, adorned a head topped with dark hair peppered by flecks of grey. Despite this sign of care or age, and the matching beard, he appeared otherwise young and strong. Green eyes, glowing like a dayshine through new leaves, stared into the distance, as he eagerly awaited something long looked-for. His skin reminded Tildy of her own after a long summer in the sun.

Behind him hung a tapestry bearing the Straverian Eagle, black upon a field of white. Tildy noted the symbol was whole, not yet broken to reflect the fall of the monarchy, and its talons clutched a spear and arrows – a sign of war.

“Look at that sword!” Marklin moaned.

Tildy’s eyes were drawn to the man’s belt. “It’s sheathed, so we can’t see it.”

“The hilt!” said Marklin excitedly. “Don’t you recognize it?”

Tildy stepped closer to inspect the inverted word. She’d learned to read that way long ago, peering over the edge of books upon the witch’s lap. “Oh,” she gasped as she read the inscription.

“Darbolesk,” Marklin finished, his voice filled with awe. “The Star’s Tail.”

“I’ve read a hundred stories about the deeds of that sword,” Tildy said without exaggeration. For six thousand years, minstrels, scholars, and scribes had recounted thrilling tales or heroism and tragedy, allowing anyone across Empyrelia to follow its exploits. Like most people, she had her favorites. One told of a boy who picked up the fallen king’s sword, holding back the Giants Three of Korst. Another described its creation: the fiery tail of a starfall, forged into an unbreakable blade. And there was the heartbreaking story of the prince who failed six times to save the women he loved. None of these accounts, however, could explain how the Elvish blade became an heirloom of Human kings. All agreed it was a gift of trust and, surprisingly, fealty.

“Everyone’s heard those stories,” Marklin agreed.

“I wonder what happened to it?”

“Probably plundered by Gargan’s forces during the conquest of Evereign,” Marklin said, his voice filled with scorn.

Tildy’s eyes moved back to the king’s tome, something she found far more intriguing. “Can you see what’s written on the book cover?”

Marklin stepped forward on tiptoes. “I can’t. Some kind of symbol—probably a royal crest or something. But it’s only a book. Look at that sword!” he moaned. “If I had a sword like that, know what I’d do?”

Tildy recalled what she’d overhead on her birthday, but since she daren’t mention that, she said, “Give the Slither-withers a beatashing?”

“If you made up a word for ‘fight’, yeah. But not at first. I’d find some noble lady and pledge my loyalty to her, like those knights I heard about in fireside stories.” He looked cautiously at her, as though gauging her reaction.

She understood the personal meaning behind these words, though he still hid his feelings about her. Appreciative, but not wanting to give anything away, she said, “I’m sure some day you’ll find a worthy lady.”

Marklin stared at her face a moment, and then smiled, seemingly pleased. He turned back to the king. “His eyes are the same color as yours,” he remarked. “At least, your usual color. They do change quite a bit.”

“They do?” Tildy wasn’t aware he’d noticed.

“Oh yeah. I’ve seen,” he ticked off fingers on his hand, “the purple of the thistle flower – kind of like your dress – acorn brown, and rich gold like honey on the comb. Once I even thought I saw black. More often than not, it’s some shade of green, like healthy grass beside the stream or a young tree at the height of spring.”

“That’s quite a detailed list,” Tildy said. She blushed deeply and saw a similar reaction on his face.

“Uh, let’s have a look at Queen Themesteria,” Marklin said, hastily moving to the next painting.

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As he opened the curtains, they both gasped. The queen was the most beautiful person Tildy had ever seen, which was something, considering she’d once seen a graceful Desmodane. She understood why people thought the woman had Elvish blood and why Lady Amaranth had mentioned the baron’s infatuation with her. She pictured the frustrated minstrels who smashed their instruments and couldn’t blame them. The woman’s skin shone like golden cream at sunrise, her hair a cascade of auburn tresses with ripples of deep copper. Gleaming eyes, like amethysts with hearts of fire, looked out at the same distant horizon as the king. She wore the feminine equivalent of his attire, down to the armor and mail, though in forest green. Her crown was a smaller circlet of braided gold and onyx with a diamond trefoil at the fore.

The queen cradled a baby in each arm, both attired in a white gown too full of lace and frill for Tildy’s taste. She presumed the garb was chosen for the painting and not for play. She felt grateful the witch hadn’t dressed her like that. Behind them, a banner of deep green bore the image of a spray of brown willow branches with white catkins.

She guessed the baby on the right was the boy. His skin matched his mother’s, though sugar-blonde hair topped his head. He bore a golden rattle with an end that irresponsibly looked like the hilt of a sword. A long silver pin held his outfit together at one shoulder, a black letter A embroidered on his breast. His sister wore a silver tiara with purple jewels. Her elaborate gown was fastened similarly, though she bore the letter A stitched in purple. She was more a reflection of the king in mien. Tildy had read somewhere that the children were twins, though not the matching kind. Looking at them, she wouldn’t have guessed them a dual birth.

To her amusement, she saw small circlet of gold on the floor beneath the prince, and she pointed it out to Marklin. “Looks like the prince refused to keep his crown on!”

“Painter must have had a sense of humor,” Marklin laughed. “Guess the lad didn’t want to be the next king,”

Tildy giggled, her eyes scanning the paintings. “There’s also a book the wrong way on the shelf.” She pointed to a book on a shelf behind the king that had been pushed in spine first.

“And there’s a rat under that table behind the queen,” Marklin said. They spent much of the afternoon searching each painting for other hidden items, gags, or puns, of which they found more than a few. Tildy also found a partially hidden ring on the queen’s right hand. It appeared to be a green damselfly with folded-back wings of diamond tracery. She found the design a rather beautiful, if unusual choice; a decoration more suited to her own style than a queen’s.

When the shadows of the room grew long and their stomachs rumbled, they decided to check on dinner.

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They left the hall, continuing to chat about the paintings. When the conversation turned to the royal heirs, Marklin asked, “What were the children’s names?”

“The baroness didn’t remember.”

“I wonder if they start with A, unless that’s their house name?”

“No, that was Straverian,” Tildy said. “I suppose with parents named Themesteria and Therald, the children had equally elaborate names.”

“Hopefully not as outlandish as their parents.”

“The royals did generally choose unusual names for their children,” she replied. She’d read quite a few history books, so she was knowledgeable about the royal lineage, even if she hadn’t learned the children’s names. “Ensured they would never be mistaken for common folk like you and me.”

“OK, Tildeneth.”

“OK, Billious.” After they shared a giggle, she continued her musing. “I don’t think I’ve read their names in any book. Historically, writers mention monarchs by name, and families are called ‘royals’ or ‘heirs’.”

They climbed in silence for a minute before he said, “I think it’s rather sad.”

“What is?”

“Them,” he replied, nodding back down the stairs. “That must’ve been painted shortly before they died. They called her the Warden of Mothers and Children, and him, the Protector of Realm, yet they’re all dead. Warriors and innocents alike.”

Tildy hadn’t considered this before, but it was sad.

He said, “Imagine how things’d be different if they were alive. I wonder what those Lost Royals would’ve been like.” He looked at her. “Might’ve been brilliant to be one of them, the life they’d have lived.”

“I suppose.” In truth, she’d often had similar thoughts, both in Southershard and while reading books in Dappledown. However, the recent conversation with Ramora had temporarily soured the idea for her.

“Not so different than you, now you’re living in this place, hey?” he added, gesturing to the walls around them.

She began to protest, not wanting to confirm his astute observation, but as they reached the second-floor landing, the indulgent aromas of cooked food chased all other thoughts from their heads.

We discover the secret of Lady Amaranth’s friendship with Tildy in Chapter 29 – Bewilderway.

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