The Party

Renard awakens the next morning somewhat more composed, no longer running on an all-nighter and having had time to process his find.

Still, thoughts float around his skull. Fantasies are cohering: if a team could be gathered, if an initiative could be formed to scout and delve Nix… someone more suited to this project, and with a better sense of leadership, would have to organise it, and choose more suitable agents as the commanders for it, people like the Pilamine knight, but Renard still might have use as a tool or adviser in such an adventure…

These dreamy thoughts snap into panic as Renard realises he has to pick an outfit for the Queen’s party today. He scrambles to get himself into something that would be even marginally presentable before proper nobility, with their proper senses of fashion and clothing budgets out of reach of Renard, but in the end the odd wavelength of his ponderous fantasy insulates him from real meltdown, and he calms again en route.

He steps into the castle and enters the ballroom. Countless men and women in ostentatious silks circle around the floor like motes of dust. This is not the first time Renard has attended such a function, or been in the presence of nobles — but it is the first time he has ever been expected to interact with them as their peer.

The people he invests in, and the impression he makes now, will determine his course for years under this new Queen’s regime.

Nobody jumps upon Renard or even takes his entrance with great attention. That is, people do notice, and acknowledge him, but have already formed into their own groups and regard him as not important enough to immediately break away for. Relieved for this mild reception, as he had half-expected the whole room to freeze on his entry, Renard retrieves a glass of wine (dated before Pilamine) for himself from the refreshments table and joins Pleione, who he spots awkwardly watching the pageantry from aside, as a conspicuously out-of-place wallflower.

Pleione relaxes from his company. They chat, pointing out people here and there and who they are and what they do, and laugh about how clueless they both seem to be about socialising with them. That said, the gossip between him and her piques Renard’s curiosity mildly, and he wonders if he should branch out a little to meet the more interesting ones. Or should he retreat somewhere with Pleione? Ask her about going out this week… Renard swishes his wine in his glass.

Similar to his own curiosity, he notices people sending infrequent but curious glances to him, though they seem unsure how to approach. He shelves his thoughts of eloping with Pleione, letting the interest of these guests ground him instead, conceding that doing so is probably appropriate.

Though relieved that the ball has accepted him, his gut screams that he needs to impress these people with a dramatic icebreaker before he can really talk to anyone. Rather, as he considers the kinds of questions he may be asked — about the Iron King, or how he liberated Lacren, his stomach twists with profound discomfort. Rather than talk about that, he thinks, as the band’s music swells, he would like to make a performance.

Renard makes for the refreshments table, an image cohering of himself getting upon the table and juggling full plates while doing a jig to everybody’s uniform awe, then throwing pies at those present. As if she herself saw this image, Pleione frantically grabs his arm and hisses for him to wait. Annoyed, Renard turns upon her — what does she think she is—

A sharp, contemptuous laugh shocks Renard. Jolting with terror and embarrassment, he turns to the source of the noise — and is surprised the mockery wasn’t aimed at him. Rather, a small group of nobles chats a little ways behind him, and one could not constrain his laugher at his fellow, who, with sweat on his brow, raised palms, and curled shoulders, appears extraordinarily nervous.

The nervous man stammers a joke to appease his bully, but the bully’s snide composure stays firm. Rather, everyone in that group appears to be in agreement with the bully, their stares upon the nervous man ranging between ‘unimpressed’ and ‘observing a clown’. The animosity shocks Renard. Should he help the guy?

He wants to intervene, and make sure the fellow’s okay — but without knowing who he is, or why he has earned this contempt, aligning himself with the unpopular man may mean tanking his own social position and alienating himself from everyone else. Intimidated, Renard catches from their conversation that the nervous man is a Baron called Asphodelis, and he has… done something, mismanaged funds… something about rubies… realising the topic is noble business he does not understand, Renard resigns that not barging in on the conversation is probably the right move, and that if he did, he’d be laughed out, too.

His throat is cold, jaw is tight, and hands are rigid when he turns back to Pleione. She asks if he’s okay, but he brushes the concern off. He abruptly feels extremely unwelcome at this event and nervous about involving himself in it, not because he thinks anyone will particularly mock him, but because the shame of not defending Asphodelis is already, as he stacks more food on his plate, overwhelming. What does having ‘fun’ at this function matter if he did not help that man? How can he celebrate this pageant while that man suffers across the room? It’s disgraceful.

But even worse, even as Asphodelis nags at his brain, he cannot find the nerve to approach him. Even to offer a plate or a reassuring word… Renard himself is not a stable enough figure to give that kind of help. Worst case, others see them talking, and it cements them both as pariahs.

Maybe after the party, then, he could find Asphodelis and make it up to him… Renard’s chest warms a slight as he slants towards this plan. He would best socialise with other guests, and establish his footing, then see Asphodelis afterwards. But with the prevailing atmosphere in his heart still scared and bitter, he dismisses that initial idea of table antics, and resigns that he will have to talk about his time as the Iron King’s Cavalier. His hand floats to Kingslayer’s hilt, in absent acknowledgement, nausea rising in his throat.

Who of these noblemen should he start with. Renard turns to Pleione for advice and guidance—

“Renard! Renard Cox!" shouts a furious voice that has, seemingly, been trying to get his attention for some time. A man in light armour shoves through a break in the crowd as if emerging from a wood, glaring Renard down and attracting many stares of his own. “Unbelievable!" he spits, “The comfort! When a blackguard as you, ‘cavalier’, prances about the court’s bosom like a real soldier. How are you all not ashamed," he addresses the whole crowd, “to cavort with a murderer?"

Renard freezes. But relaxes just as quickly, not from confidence, but resignation and exhaustion. It’s the backlash he expected, finally showing up, though he should figure out what this guy specifically wants. “Ease, my fellow…"

“Ohhh I ease natch, for we are enemies, deeply," the man announces, and laughs. “Not and never fellows, so scrape that word from your tongue. You are the rogue who butchered a gracious and noble man, known to this court and to kingdoms beyond as the good Sir Liadus Penn. I am his brother, Orpheus Penn, sheltered fortunately within foreign walls from the intrigues that slaughtered my family. Free as am I now by the Queen’s grace to this homecoming, you happily will hear my oath, sworn to my brother’s grave, ghost, and ghoul, and to those of all others you murdered. You, ‘Sir’ Renard, are this land’s blackest villain and a mockery of knights, who with all my soul and wit I will deny any shred of regard. Before this peerage and before even peasants, it is not until you are begging in the mud that I will know justice is sated."

Renard slumps. He finds himself unsure how to respond, as onlookers whisper and titter with open eyes, some receptive to Orpheus’ passion and the rest, though aware Renard has been formally exonerated and so unconcerned with Orpheus’ rhetoric, curious to how Renard will respond to such a zealous challenge. But Renard’s hesitation isn’t because he’s unsure of how to defend himself. It’s because Orpheus is honestly right.

As in, if he could, Renard would shout: I know!!! Go ahead, ruin my life, hells above, tell me how and I’ll help you. For god’s sake, do destroy this tainted husk, let it be murdered before justice, and absolve me to start again as something better and new. I want that as much as you!

But in the end, without passion, he can only say, “the good Queen has ruled my case… I stand in this company by the felling of my old master, and the preservation of Lacren from foreign interests… the debts of my sin are so paid by reasonable virtue." As he considers these words, he feels himself growing annoyed, then angry with Orpheus.

Indeed, the debts of his sin are paid… indeed, he has little option before him but to act as, and be, a good person! Why cling to vengeance against a Renard that no longer exists — one Renard himself murdered upon Kingslayer — what is the point? Would it not be a greater defeat of the villain he was, and of the pain in Orpheus’ own heart, for Renard to truly become a genuine servant of the virtues chivalrous men espouse. Is that not what this good brother of his would have wanted!

As the Queen steps out of the crowd to mediate, Orpheus, not yet noticing her, begins, “Never would I doubt the compassion of our good Queen, nor her judgement to keep an accomplished bladesman within her retinue. Your presence among lords, however—"

“—If you are so married to light!" Renard bursts, stomping a step forward. “Then shining by what ray is vengeance on me! Good man, so hoist your blade to swing upon what, a wretch mired in the dirt? Shall fifty unbathed peasants be an eyesore, or shall any of you lose your dignity when robbed of your dress and thrown from your houses! Is it the wolf that bites, or what is bitten, that must die to end wolves? All my fangs are taken from me."

Orpheus flinches, taken aback at the rebuttal’s intensity, as the Queen relaxes, impressed by Renard’s defence. Silence reigns the crowd, their stares fixed on Renard, commitment growing to contemplation, agreement, or rejection of Renard’s stance. The only one thrown off-balance, and desperate for him to stop, is Pleione — but not even she can, or can try to, interrupt this.

“No paltry apologies of my mouth may mend the pain and indignation that I know you feel. So stand not I to give them! Let it be by my deed that new integrity be shown. To every good and noble man, so I tell, nay, to every ear on earth, I tell, the identity of the true beast that confounds brothers as us into bickering." Renard wets his lips. “It is the same beast that killed our creator! Oh chuckle, I know, as so many will, by the vanity that he is so distant — but can you not see by every corpse felled that the beast is not far at all? Snort shall you whilst I acknowledge what wrongs our home, and spite the solution to dolour, because it is so obvious, because it is not inside us, because it is something that others have said?

“Or will you call to me, what does it matter! It is not stones before me, what does it matter!" Renard howls. “What did it matter when twenty-more kingdoms called war upon my old liege! Who at the vanguard held Kingslayer and pointed it on his neck — none! Yet every soldier shone with zeal to die for that cause, and prevailed by that conviction.

“Does our valour disappear! Is righteousness a wisp, a gown, we don selfishly over our motives? Balderdash! It is our soul’s deep hunger, pour’d from a love of our maker. So moved we chop at wickedness’ fingers, sprout’d before us on our earth, we celebrate our victory, but we do not sever the wrist! Hear me, all, what I must say."

Renard takes a deep breath.

“This rot upon our souls rises from a fountain in Nix, the very beast of which I speak. Fell the head of this beast — and the rot is done."

Even deeper silence prevails. Renard looks to the Queen, with meek but hopeful expectation, one far too heavy for her when thrown into her lap so suddenly. But just as much as the coalition could not ignore the proposal to purify soul rot, nobody in this room can ignore the attractiveness of perhaps ending it altogether. It is as though Renard has thrown an idealistic meat haunch into a den of starving hyenas.

“You speak with true nobility… of that, nobody can doubt," the Queen takes a breath to steady herself. “But, we…" she winces. “We must only consider these thoughts, once we as a kingdom are more sure." She straightens her neck, though a strong discomfort still underpins her confident words. “An underplanned initiative cannot lose us our country."

Finding these words just vague enough, and still clinging to a childlike hope, Renard innocently questions, “you will?"

The Queen gives a strained smile. “No… no."

Most observing the exchange accept this conclusion without argument, and even with greater confidence in the Queen, aware that Renard’s proposal was beyond unreasonable. Nonetheless, an air of intense dejection and disappointment settles over the room.

So it is for Renard. He looks to Orpheus, who has been thoroughly silenced by that proposal. Orpheus finds himself with nothing to add, acknowledges Renard’s win in this bout with a wary but respectful jerk of the head, and splits from the break in the crowd to be with his own thoughts. With the Queen also melting back into the crowd, the former space between her, Orpheus, and Renard quickly fills with people.

Some who now wish to speak with Renard. Before anyone reaches him, Pleione frantically grabs him and drags him aside to a corner, where she questions, wide-eyed, if Renard is serious about killing Arsene.

Without much thought, Renard nods.

Pleione clutches her head like a madwoman, in disbelief of what she’s hearing. She snaps herself back into focus and hisses to Renard that he should pack his bags right now, go to another country, and repeat that proposal — and repeat it, and repeat it, and repeat it, until he finds one that says yes. Pleione will go with him. They best start with Oppenveist; it has the best prospects.

Renard quirks his brow at her urgency, confused by how rash of a plan this is for her. He says simply that he’s not going abroad for this.

—But Lacren is too weak, Pleione snaps. It hasn’t the allies or resources to fund an assault against Nix.

Renard, realising, notes the error in Pleione’s thinking. No Kingdom of the West would throw its sons into Nix, especially at the word of a foreigner, unless it were truly desperate for glory. Places where the lords are known as comfortably righteous and successful would not be inspired towards this cause, unless their weaker neighbour were showing them up by pursuing it instead. It’s something that resonates with people, not governments, and neither Renard nor Pleione are respectable enough figures abroad to preach such a grassroots change in policy. However, here in smaller Lacren, it is now a matter profoundly in the aristocracy’s consciousness, some of whom will adopt it to pressure their own ambitions against the Queen. Put in shorter terms, Renard doesn’t think Pleione’s plan would work — nor does he want to abandon Lacren over something he figured wouldn’t be accepted anyway. That’s just unreasonable.

Pleione falls speechless.

The glory for this conquest better goes to Lacren, Renard grins, hand on Kingslayer.

This is larger than… the politics of one nation, Pleione begs. The entire East would aid you if you could bring the West’s military to this cause.

But Renard shakes his head and wags his finger. Invite too the north and south, let us bring the whole world to battle! No, these numbers mean little in real war, for it is not a claim to bodies, but a claim to hearts, that dictate the victor. A hundred bladesmen unified with conviction win surely against a hundred thousand who doubt their place on the battleground.

Pleione gives the most miserable look Renard has ever seen. She tries one last push: When that coalition united against your King…

Mm, they were slavering also to conquer Pilamine. Renard rolls his eyes.

Pleione’s shoulders slump, defeated.

Pleione, Renard calls, his tone softening. I don’t jest with you.

But she can only throw up her hands, too upset and disgusted to talk. If he is serious, but will not invest into bringing a proper warlike campaign against Nix, or otherwise collaborate with local governments, then he is essentially saying he means to conquer Nix single-handedly. It is such an obviously stupid, harebrained, impossible, unworkable thought — and yet this breed of foolhardy stupidity has garnered Renard unthinkable successes before. She cannot help but wonder if he will pull out another miracle, or if she should just resign that she should have expected this from Renard. In the former case, she doesn’t want to discourage him. In the latter, she doesn’t have the right to.

While Pleione sulks, and Renard smiles to her pityingly, a sharp ting-ting-ting of glass peals over the chatter of the room. Renard looks to the source of the noise. The Queen, standing on a dais, hands off the glass to a servant and straightens herself for an announcement.

Which is thus: Apart from just fun and networking, the purpose of this party was to inform the nobility of a personally relevant change of regime. In the years that the Iron King held the throne, chivalric teachings were heavily deemphasized and knights who could teach these manners surreptitiously to noble children had largely been run out of the kingdom. There is a generation of aristocratic Lacrenese scions who are severely lacking in their moral and tactical education, and equally have lost important, fundamental life experiences of in-field training as a page or squire. The deficit has been massively concerning to parents, who fear their children may grow to be tactically, practically, and ethically illiterate in a way that will never measure with their properly-trained peers, or foreigners.

And so, the Queen is instating an organised training program to get this generation their proper education. She has invited many accomplished foreign retirees, and former Lacrenese exiles, to act as tutors in this cause. She has drawn rosters for those who would like to enrol their children…

Renard notices Pleione slip away from his side and exit the room, uninterested in these proceedings and apparently wanting time on her own. Renard, too, agrees now would be an opportune time to leave, though he will hear out the Queen’s speech further. Soon he feels he has the gist, and indeed, it’s not really his business.

As he puts down his glass and strides for the door, the Queen introduces the tutors—

And chokes with panic at her call, of ‘Orpheus Penn’.