War of the Gypsy

Chapter One

Chapter One

The halls of Màrrach so strong and grand,

The halls of Màrrach will always stand.

Thousands of warriors drink and tell story,

Centuries of warrior’s voices raised in glory.

Verna protects her children in her land so vast,

Yes, the halls of Màrrach will always last.

— The Halls of Màrrach; Kyia Kossi

The wavering light of thousands of scented candles danced in time to the lively music filling the Royal Palace of Màrrach in the land of Ventra. The band of minstrels had traveled with the visiting king and queen who now sat at the bustling, crowded table with Ventra’s royal family: the Kossis.

Small, fair-haired men and women dashed around to keep wine glasses and jeweled goblets filled and the table cleared of forgotten dishes, only to bring out more food. The table was filled with silver platters holding large chunks of pork and venison. Steam rose and curled from mounds of bread in every shape and texture, and shiny silver bowls offered cooked potatoes, broccoli, turnips, and carrots.

Dancing girls, also supplied by the visiting royalty, spun and whirled around with jingling bells and tiny finger cymbals. A mighty fire roared in a massive fireplace so big it took up almost half of one marbled wall. The sound of talk and laughter rose and fell like an angry sea and filled every crevice of the grand dining hall. Rhiannon Kossi and her beloved confidant and interpreter, Tim, sat quietly eating their meal. She wished they would have been allowed to take their meal in her chambers like they had done so many times over the long weeks they had been in Màrrach. Rhiannon felt completely out of place. Stuffing some roasted pork into her mouth she planned her escape, but then sighed, realizing this was a special dinner and she would be expected to stay.

She nervously adjusted the thin, golden circlet resting on her dark hair. It had been swept up into thousands of tiny braids studded with a spray of gemstones that winked in the uneven candlelight. It had taken three servants all afternoon to produce such a spectacular mass of braids and jewels. She wore a deep red, sleeveless top made of the softest satin she had ever felt. The neckline was cut low to show her diamond-shaped birthmark. It was tight fitting, and the hem came to just under her breasts where hundreds of golden beads danced as she moved. A delicate rope of gold and rubies clasped her waist. Her low-cut, loose-fitting pants were made of matching silk and golden hems and flowed freely down to the floor covering her slippered feet. Rhiannon felt vulnerable and exposed in her royal costume. She missed her jeans and flannel shirts from home.

After a while she got bored, and Rhiannon’s eyes wandered over to the visiting royals. The man was short and round and had balding grayish-brown hair. A thick golden crown encrusted with emeralds and rubies circled his head. Rhiannon thought it was garish and the colors clashed. He wore a silk shirt of the crispest white she had ever seen. It had a profusion of ruffles at the neck and cuffs. Over his shirt, he wore a tunic of bright yellow and black. The crest of a tawny-colored spit of land surrounded by red-colored water was upon his chest. His chubby fingers pulled at the meat on his plate, then shoved a massive piece into his mouth. Jewels on his fingers sparkled in the light.

She then let her eyes slip to his queen who sat demurely at his left. Her hair was also graying from brown and was held in a severe bun at the back of her head. She wore a smaller crown of gold, also with red and green gems. Her dress mimicked her husband’s in color: bright yellow and black. Her neckline was low, and her pale chest was covered with ropes of gold and chunks of emerald. She was thin, almost sickly and her pallor looked washed out in the golden light. Her lined expression was pinched. It seemed she was unhappy at the Archigos’ hospitality.

The young woman that Rhiannon assumed was their daughter was dressed in a blush-colored dress. The neckline swooped down to expose the tiny rounds of two pale breasts. Around her long, thin neck snaked many necklaces of sparkling gold and rubies. Her mousy brown hair was done up in several small plaits, and a tiny circlet of gold with small chips of emerald and ruby sat atop her head. Her face was powdered, and her lips painted red. She looked, perhaps, fourteen or fifteen.

She was in an animated conversation with Shankee’s son who was about her age. A small piece of her hair had come out of its braid, and she was mindlessly twirling it around one delicate finger. She was smiling and laughing at everything the young man said. He looked very uncomfortable but clearly took his diplomatic duties seriously. She seemed far older than her fresh looks suggested. Rhiannon surmised that this young girl was already proficient in the art of seduction and briefly felt sorry for her parents.

Rhiannon was wondering who they were when Shankee finally stood up.

“Tonight, is a special night,” she spoke out loudly, her voice ringing in the crystal. Tim quickly translated Shankee’s words for Rhiannon. “Some of you already know, but a few of you do not,” she nodded her head in acknowledgment of the squatty looking, overly dressed couple. She continued, “I would like to announce the arrival of Rhiannon Kossi, the daughter of our great empress, Sernia!” Shankee held out an elegant, silk draped arm towards Rhiannon, gem-studded bracelets glimmering in the light. There were gasps and then all fell silent. “Will you please rise, Rhiannon?”

“She wants you to stand up, milady,” Tim whispered, and reluctantly Rhiannon stood. Her heart pounded in her ears, and her mouth went dry. She gave a nervous smile and mechanical nods. She turned to the visiting guests and bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment.

“Rhiannon, may I present to you the King and Queen of Yellow Island and their daughter, Princess Jocelyn.” Shankee smiled magnanimously and motioned towards their guests as Tim interpreted.

At the mention of Yellow Island, Rhiannon gasped. Her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. “Murderers!” Rhiannon screamed and pointed across the table at the King and Queen of Yellow Island, the ridiculous golden bracelets they gave her to wear clashed together making a tinkling noise. Suddenly the room was quiet. The only sound was the hiss of the fire. Everyone looked at Rhiannon with wide eyes and open mouths. Rhiannon could see recognition in the old king’s eyes. She knew he understood her. “You sent your army to kill thousands of men who only fought for their freedom from the very woman who murdered my mother! Even now she holds my father in her dungeons.”

“Return to your place, Rhiannon!” Shankee ordered in clear Jurian.

Rhiannon ignored Shankee’s orders and went on, “You are in bed with Baobh, and when I become empress, you’ll be made to pay for your bad choice in allies!” She picked up a small knife from beside her plate, gripping it in a moist hand.

King Umar jumped from the table. “You will not speak to a king in that manner!” he howled in Jurian. The Priests of Jur must have traveled as far as Yellow Island since he knew the language.

“You are nothing but a coward!” Rhiannon screamed and threw the knife so hard it sailed past several startled people and embedded itself in the table just inches from the king’s fat gut.

The queen shrieked, and their daughter quietly snickered, trying to hide her amusement behind a napkin. Instantly two Yellow Island Guardsmen were standing on either side of their king with their swords drawn, looking menacingly at Rhiannon.

The crowd looked from Rhiannon back to Shankee expecting violence. “Be seated, Rhiannon. These are our guests!” Shankee ordered.

“I will not share a meal with an ally of Baobh! And while he’s here, he’d better watch his back.” Rhiannon narrowed her dark eyes at him, then ran from the room. Tim jumped up and quickly followed her.

Rhiannon angrily paced across the soft, carpeted floors of her apartments drinking whiskey from a small crystal glass. Her mind raced as furious energy radiated from her body and out into the room. Tim sat nervously on one of the upholstered chairs fiddling with one of Rhiannon’s daggers that she had been practicing with lately. “Do you really mean to kill King Umar?” he asked.

“Yes.” She did not hesitate.

“Tonight?” Tim’s eyes grew wide.

“No.” She finally sighed.

“Good, because I am certain that would start a war.”

“Well, if they were fighting us, they would leave the rebellion alone, and I know we could beat them!” Rhiannon started to scheme but quickly abandoned the thought. She could not start a war within weeks of her return to Ventra.

“You are not serious?”

“No,” she sighed again, then took a deep drink of her liquor. “I am frustrated, though. I can’t believe Shankee had the gall to bring them here when I told her Yellow Island had a huge part in all but wiping out the rebellion!”

“Perhaps she invited them here to ascertain whether or not they were planning on helping Beaynid try and take Màrrach when they were done with the rebellion.” Rhiannon looked over at Tim, unconvinced. “She does have the responsibility of diplomacy.”

“I know exactly where she can shove her diplomacy!”

Later that night, Rhiannon sat on a blanket spread out near one of the small ponds in the vast park-like solarium. The ducks had long since swum off into the cattails and nested for the night. The air was chilly, yet not nearly as cold as it was outside. It had snowed three days after Flath had left for Beaynid and a thick blanket still covered Màrrach.

Rhiannon spent time in the gardens every night. She found it relaxing. She spent time thinking about her father or trying to recall memories of her mother or the first six years of her life, here in Màrrach. Most of the time, her thoughts would drift to Flath. Once she thought she had seen him lurking near a tree in the flickering glow of a burning torch. But it had turned out to be the mysterious warrior who, whenever she spotted him, would slowly walk away, as if defeated.

The pax lay stretched out next to her on the blanket, her rough purring almost singing Rhiannon to sleep. The cat had grown considerably, losing the black spots of her youth and the warriors and their servants had finally grown accustomed to seeing the beast at her side.

As she had so many times before, she thought of Flath. She hoped he fared well and wondered if the rebellion yet lived. Sometimes her heart ached so badly she could not think of much else than the utter pain of missing him.

Her long legs were drawn up, and she rested her cheek on her red, silk covered knees. She had torn out all the braids and gemstones earlier and now wore her hair unbound. It spilled over her shoulders and down her back in a sleek, black sheet. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to push out all her racing thoughts. The enormity of the situation was far beyond what she could comprehend. How could she ever lead the mighty nation of Ventra? Especially into a war they did not want, to protect people they hated.

Suddenly, she was brought out of her thoughts. Her skin prickled, and she knew that she was being watched. He had come again. She spotted him as he stood under a large white oak, quietly staring at her. Curiosity forced her to wave an arm in the air motioning him to come near. His body slightly jerked, as if he was surprised, but he reluctantly started walking toward her. When he stood before her, she patted the ground inviting him to sit and he quietly obliged.

He looked much like the rest of the Archigos: high cheekbones, bronzed skin, straight dark hair and deep black eyes. He was as tall as Flath, but his body was sleeker, his bones a little finer. His hair was braided and fell to the middle of his back. His appearance was not lacking. He was quite handsome in a mysterious, dangerous kind of way.

He stretched out long muscled legs and leaned back on one arm. She could see red and blue tattoos circling up his biceps in an interpretation of a snake figure. He continued looking at her as though waiting for her to say something.

Rhiannon sighed and looked out over the pond again. She wondered if he would speak to her and if so, would he lower himself to speak to her in Jurian? Her hand was resting on the grass, and she jumped when she felt him take it into his. He held her hand tenderly examining every freckle and crease in the flicker of firelight. Finally, he stopped at a faint scar—nothing more than a tiny white line. He rubbed a calloused finger over it, and then let her hand go.

“It really is you, Rhiannon.” He spoke quietly in Jurian. She did not reply but examined the scar on the back of her hand. “Do you remember when you got that?” he asked, indicating her hand with a nod.

“No.”

“It was almost spring, right before you left with your parents.” He looked out at the pond as if conjuring memories long dimmed by time. “We had been warned by the stable master, but we still snuck into the stables and crept way back to the last stall.” She watched him intently not able to look away. “I was afraid and didn’t want to go any further, but you insisted.” His lips curved into a smile. “So, we slipped through the stable door to get a better look at the new foal. The mare was surprised but didn’t seem too nervous, so we just kept getting closer and closer to the colt. I remember how you laughed when he tried to stand, but fell down in the straw.” He looked into her eyes. “Finally, we got too close, and the mare grew angry and started stomping and snorting like a huge scary beast. She reared up and was going to come down on my head, but you pushed me out of the way, and her hoof landed on your hand, splitting it open!”

“I remember!” Rhiannon gasped. “You pulled me out of the stall then ran screaming out of the stables yelling for the stable master.”

“Yes, and I was so worried when they carried you up to your mother.”

“I do remember it now.”

“Do you recall the whipping I received?”

“Yes,” she said, laughing.

“I didn’t think it was so humorous. It had been your idea,” he said, smirking.

She studied him in the flickering light. “I can’t believe it’s you, Shih ’Ni!” she said, reaching over and hugging him tightly.

He clumsily wrapped his thick arms around her and squeezed. “I thought you were dead,” he whispered.

She let go of him. “No, not dead—just lost.”