Gene Wolfe - The Wizard

“I didn’t understand that when I was younger. I wanted to be a knight, and I became one—not because I chose to be one, but because of the things I did and the way I thought. Good and evil are decided by thoughts and choices, too.”

“Like the princess?”

I had not considered that. “Unlike the princess,” I said. “She’s chosen good, but it seems evil has chosen her.”

We spoke more, before the bridge was lowered for us and after; but the only thing of note was said by Gylf as we were shown into the hall: “Ears up!”

He was right, of course; if ever there was a time to be watchful that was it; what was at least equally important was that he had chosen to speak in Wistan’s presence. It was not that I had called Wistan a knight, or merely that they had fought side by side, but a combination of those things with something more. Gylf was a sound judge of character.

I had been in Gilling’s hall in Utgard; Arnthor’s seemed small in comparison; but it was better furnished, with chairs and benches with backs for his guests instead of stools. The walls were hung with shields, those of proven knights having the arms colored, those of less proven knights with the arms outlined but not painted in, and those of unproven knights blank. I had followed this custom when I chose a blank green shield, although I had not been aware of it.

Arnthor and Gaynor were to sit at a raised table, he with the queen to his right. I was to sit at Arnthor’s left, as the page who guided us confided, with Morcaine to my left. This was made clear by the quality of the chairs, Arnthor’s being gilt all over and set with gems, Gaynor’s smaller and delicate, and the princess’s gilt only at the top, although beautifully carved and furnished with a velvet cushion. Mine was plainer than these, but by no means contemptible, being large and boasting a well-carved Nykr on its back. Wistan was directed to a lower table, but Gylf sat by my chair.

“The trumpets will sound for His Majesty,” the page murmured. “Everyone stands until he says you may sit. As soon as he makes the motion, sit down.” I said I wished he could advise me as I ate.

“I will. Everyone at this table will have a page. I’ll be behind you. Crook your finger if you need to talk to me. I’ll help with the food or run with a message, if you want.”

Other guests were entering as we spoke, I suppose about a hundred in all. I asked how I ought to conduct myself.

“Don’t speak ‘til they speak to you—not to anybody royal. His Majesty will be served first, then Her Majesty, then Her Highness, then you. Don’t eat too much and don’t drink too much. Don’t laugh unless His Majesty does.”

Then I wished that the Earl Marshal was nearer; I wanted to ask why Morcaine ranked behind the queen when she could claim the crown if the king died. Although he had taken a seat at the lower table, two diners separated us.

The nearer of these, thinking that I was looking at him, congratulated me on my victory.

I thanked him, calling him “My Lord,” at which my page whispered urgently, “Your Grace!”

The duke in question ignored the page and my mistake, saying, “I’d like to know, Sir Able, how Her Majesty found a knight bold enough to stand against those you faced.”

I replied, “There must be many in Celidon, Your Grace.”

“I’m surprised she could find one. We’ll have need of you when the Caan attacks.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You expect war, Your Grace?”

“Yes, it’s how one acquires the reputation for prophecy. Look wise, predict war, and you’ll always be right. You’re one of Marder’s?”

“Yes, Your Grace. I have that honor.”

“I’ll ask about you when I see him. I’ll be—”

The trumpets sounded. We rose, and those not facing the entrance turned to it. Arnthor came first, tall, erect, and walking fast, while the pursuivant who had assisted the Nykr King of Arms announced his name and titles: “His Most Royal Majesty King Arnthor, Defender of the West,” and so on. Gaynor followed. She was of course much smaller, but lovely in a white velvet gown and a crown of diamonds and red gold. Two pages bore her train.

“Her Most Royal Majesty Queen Gaynor, Duchess of Daunte, Countess of Chaus, Countess of...” A place I have forgotten, with a dozen baronies.

After Gaynor’s lush beauty, Morcaine seemed mannish, as tall as her brother and richly dressed in black and scarlet, with a single page to carry her train.

“Her Royal Highness Princess Morcaine, Daughter of Uthor, Duchess of Ringwood...”

She smiled at me, the only one who did; I smiled in return, although I could not be sure she meant well.

And all this time I searched my mind for the message I had been given. Arnthor had spoken to me in the bailey, but no message had come. Here in his hall, I saw his face and he mine, but no message filled me. I searched, but found only the loving thoughts of Cloud, who waited patiently in the stables and assured me she was royally cared for and the object of much admiring attention from the king’s grooms.

Arnthor took his place, sitting at once. Gaynor stood on his right; I thought her nervous and anxious. To my left, redolent of brandy, Morcaine came to the table as one who owned not only Thortower but all Mythgarthr, and stood there swaying, smiling as if she expected her brother’s guests to cheer. He was indeed a king; but Morcaine was of the blood of kings. That thought was soon followed by another—that if she, more than he, showed the blood of their royal parent, then the blood he showed was that of a dragon of Muspel.

Garsecg, the brother of both, had been royal in manner, yet a dragon still. If there was anyone in Arnthor’s hall who might breathe fire, it was surely Arnthor himself.

For a minute and more we remained standing. At last Arnthor made a trifling gesture, and we sat.

Food was brought at once, so quickly that it was clear the servingmen had been waiting at the lesser entrances. A chef put a great roast swan on our table, and at a signal from Arnthor split it with a knife not much smaller than a sword. Split, it could be seen that a goose had had been stuffed into the swan to be roasted with it, a plover into the goose, a duck into the plover, and three lesser birds into the duck, all these save the swan having been boned.

The chef indicated the two smallest (I would imagine a quail and a thrush) to Arnthor, who nodded. The chef swiftly cut a bit from each, which he ate. Arnthor nodded again, and the birds were served him.

Gaynor was next, the chef indicating the lesser bird in the duck. She shook her head, and received the duck’s breast instead. Morcaine declined all. I indicated the one Gaynor had declined, wishing to see what it was and wishing also to show that although she might fear poison, I was willing to run the risk for her sake. My bird proved to be a partridge, delicious and wholly innocent.

The chef having gone, Arnthor severed a leg of the swan with his own dagger, and held it up. “Here it is our custom to dine with our dogs in attendance,” he said to me. “You know this, plainly, since you brought your own.”

I nodded. “I was told that I might do so without offense, Your Majesty. I hope I was not misinformed.”

“Not at all.” He smiled. “You’ll have seen my hounds.”

“I did, Your Majesty. They’re noble animals.”

“They are.” He whistled, and half a dozen boarhounds came to his chair, bristling and growling at Gylf. “Noble not just in appearance, but in conduct. I hunt boars, Sir Able, and greater prey, when I can get it. Those who hang back are drowned at my order.”

I said, “The chase is the noblest sport, Your Majesty.”

“I’d have said war, and many here the melee. But it’s a topic on which each man is entitled to his opinion.”