Cassandra
Thirteen kings sure know how to throw a party.
Well, okay, technically there were five kings, two queens, a pair of princes and another of princesses, a duchess, a pharaoh, a masked lord, a sceptenar (dare not forget him), and, well, nobody really knows what Lady Leuthil is. But the principle's the same.
It was lavish, but somehow not overdone. The idea was to emphasize the fraternity and comradery--not to say equality--of the assembled lords and rulers, to remind them of their essential humanity (or elvanity), and dare say even to give them a chance to unwind and just enjoy one another's company. Theirs, and that of an awkward gaggle of so-called heroes.
As awkward as Cassandra felt beside such august personage, she ached to relieve Azalea and her sister of the burden; the poor girls had gone positively white when they realized what was in store. The wizardess at least had her secret task to keep her occupied--though it hardly made it easier to blend in amongst kings and pharaohs whilst trying to surreptitiously scan their minds for thoughts of sedition--but Calliope, well...
Apparently, her sister was currently talking the ear off Prince Gabriel, while simultaneously entertaining the Pharoah, the Sceptenar, and the Duchess Thaymount with shop-talk amongst artificers. The prince had nobly bailed her out of a tight corner, and pursuant to his considerable diplomatic talents, had actually managed to steer her into a conversation she felt comfortable in--although Cassandra wasn't quite sure she was particularly comfortable with Tchazzar learning all she knew about Artifice, and she certainly didn't want anything to slip about her sister's "secret initiative".
Though she imagined Bael would gladly opine on matters of forgecraft, he'd been roped into a discussion of sport with King Plataeus and the Sceptenar's amazonian champion--Desdemona, if she recalled correctly. It seemed those two had some sort of history, more so than anything she shared with her charge, but both were well enough entertained by the dwarf's vivid description of "dwarven wrestling", a curious sport that seemed to have no rule but constant one-upsmanship leading to inevitable absurdity. In any case, he was an old hand at this sort of thing; in fact, she'd overheard him mention something to that effect in a brief but warm reunion with Princess Alusair. The two had apparently served together against the Tuigan Horde in her father's heyday, and she'd gathered the Steel Regent had been something of a folk hero to the people of Earthfast since.
For her part, she was on autopilot, navigating a light discussion of--she queried her subconscious mind--tariffs and trade policy of the Inner Sea (oh gods kill me now) with Prince Renaud of Sembia, while trying to take the measure of the room. All in all, Prince Gabriel's gambit seemed to be working; all were in more or less high spirits, and as said spirits flowed, the lords and ladies were growing ever more open and gregarious. Of course, there were a few that seemed to keep their masks on tightly, and those were the ones she wanted most to get close to, to sense their intent. She always knew when a person was "off", to say nothing of tainted by sin or evil will. It had never been clear if it was intuition or a divine gift, but the latter certainly seemed plausible, as it had been intensifying of late, in step with her rising magical strength. In any case, she was certain she could at least get a hint of the danger Azalea had warned about if she could just engage each of them briefly.
Amongst the partygoers, she was most curious about the elves: they seemed distant and mysterious, which is hardly out of character for them, but it was to such a degree that it warranted closer inspection. Their faces just screamed "we know a huge secret and won't tell you, na na na". Lady Leuthil, in particular, had far too knowing a gaze, and was inordinately interested in Azalea. Gwydion, her champion, didn't look like any kind of elf Cassandra had ever seen, and kept slipping up in minor ways, making references that didn't quite make sense, tripping over a colloquialism--things many a diplomat might be expected to do when speaking a foreign language, but not one with evident centuries of experience. Just where was he from, and was he deliberately dodging her, or just that lucky?
She made sure to keep an eye on the champions as well; sure, it was less likely they would be at the heart of the conspiracy, given the string of coincidences needed to get them into this position, but that's far too convenient a defense to be overlooked. Cassandra had investigated hundreds of crimes and sins in her day, and she'd learned the hard way not to overlook the unlikely. First on her list was Elden Helyanwe, the Black Archer; he was steeped in darkness, a rage he didn't bother trying to contain or conceal. Would he have reason to assassinate the prince? He certainly had the means and opportunity, and two out of three was plenty enough cause for concern, motive be damned. However, he alone amongst the champions opted not to attend his own celebratory feast--an unspeakably improper choice that seemed to fit him like a glove. Still, given his peerless, nigh-divine skill at archery, it hardly seemed necessary for him to get close to the prince to do the deed; he might well have done so from several miles out of town the night before he arrived, for heaven's sake. She'd have to look into him later.
Tchazzar's champion (or was she the Threskan king's) was something of an enigma. She could sense a powerful echo of darkness about her, like the report of a volcanic eruption a hundred miles away--truly colossal in scale, but so distant as to be unthreatening, if not disconcerting. And yet, no sin clung to her, at least none of the really bad ones. She could almost sense a vision coming on, elusive as a missed sneeze; it was as if fate had great plans for her, but hadn't yet quite decided which to pick first. She considered her in purely empirical ways: she was tall and powerfully-built (she had won the wrestling matches after all, getting the best of men twice her size), yet distractingly attractive. Her golden locks and fair skin hardly fit her Chessen origin, and seemed almost a mask, even a glamour. If it were, she would be guilty of a terrible sin in the eyes of her patron deity, for disguising one's race or physical abilities is patently against the bylaws of the games, which she swore to uphold. And yet, she didn't sense such sin, or even the air of deceptiveness that usually clung to criminals and ne'er-do-wells, so whatever it was, she seemed to come by it honestly.
There was the winner of the aerial race, one Krista Summerwind of Aglarond. She wore her past like an old cloak; she seemed to have survived a great ordeal, and had been given a second chance. There was, strangely enough, almost a redaction of her aura, as if the gods had wiped clean her record to give her a fresh start. Odd as it was, it wasn't unheard of; Cassandra guessed she had been resurrected at some point, and any true resurrection involved divine intervention--a full reckoning of her life, judgment by the gods, and the award of rebirth. And so, like any babe, she became a clean slate, morally speaking. Far be it from me to second-guess her gods, whoever they are, Cassandra though to herself, and moved on.
Some Tuigan, one of the Jade Princess' kin, had cleaned house in the horse races, surprising no one. Though the party-crasher herself wasn't invited to this little gala, her champion was, necessarily. His Chondathan was atrocious, but he nonetheless had a captive audience in King Helm of the Silver Marches and his young cohort Moszalexander, King of Obouldar. The boy-king was fascinated with the foreigners, and wished to hear all he could of the vastness of the east, the exploits of the Jade Empress and her father--some of it was actually in kind of poor taste, given the damage done by the Tuigans in this corner of Faerun, but she hardly expected a boy-king of orcs from the far west to know any better. And in truth, it paled in comparison to the eastern princess' poor taste in showing up at all--although, bless him, Gabriel did try to convince his father to invite her in, and she'd had the good sense to excuse herself with surprising diplomatic grace. This Kim Lukhum was one Cassandra really wanted to get close to...but she'd had to settle for one of her horselords, who, despite a laundry list of venial sins, didn't really have enough true taint about him to worry her.
The chariot race had been won by the pharaoh's champion, Balthazar. A mahogany god he was, chiseled from black cherry heartwood by Sune herself, having given up on the limits of beauty of mortal men. Pity he was a eunuch, but Cassandra at least could appreciate his physicality from a warrior's perspective. He'd held himself every moment like a coiled snake, graceful, quiet, and devastatingly powerful. She very much doubted she could handle him in a straight-up fight, and if his aura was any indication, her holy magic wouldn't be much help. The man was pure as the driven snow, and it was genuinely pleasant to bask in his aura. Of course, she didn't have much of an excuse to linger, as apparently he didn't speak a whit of Chondathan, his mistress was keen to point out, if with what Cassandra might have detected was a tiny barb of possessiveness.
That left only the champion of fencing, one Alessandra Selkirk of Sembia. As it happened, she had no need to seek her out, as she was bearing down on her now, diving in like a shark, seemingly unperturbed by the wash of titles and styles through which she waded. She interjected her lithe body a bit close into Prince Renaud's personal space, and tossed her black locks playfully. "Is he boring you, my dear?" she cut in, her voice openly whimsical but subtlely jealous, her warrior stance evident behind a practiced diplomatic grace, a warning meant just for Cassandra. "You'll have to forgive him, he's helpless for a fighting woman."
With that, she seized the prince, and without any regard for decency, propriety, or even, apparently, the law of gravity, she kissed him, her long neck arching backward, his hand slipping around her hip for a moment before he remembered himself. Her display of agility, brashness, and ownership was over almost as soon as it had begun, but her point was made. "You were magnificent, Sera," she said in her thick Sembian accent, offering a polite curtsy, "I am most fortunate you did not opt to bring your sword to the fencing matches."
"Yes, well," Cassandra began, trying not to let the woman's audacity disturb her diplomatic calm, "I cannot fault the prince's heart. You certainly know how to handle a blade, Donna Selkirk." The mercenary arched her eyebrow; point scored, it seemed, as few would know exactly how to address the daughter of a mercenary lord so recently ennobled to the station of Patrician. Fewer, still, would know of her family's disdain for noble titles of any kind, and would scarcely dare to name her as such without making a point of it. "His highness was most entertaining; I never imagined there were so many ways for merchant captains to skirt customs law!"
The olive-skinned woman narrowed her eyes just so, but seemed oddly satisfied, her jealousy fading to general cautiousness. She was right to suspect Cassandra, as even now her aura was resolving into view, its colors taking shape, the weight of her sins upon her soul manifesting. And...and, well, she was certainly not found of chastity or marriage, but there was no serious hint of evil about her. She'd no doubt the woman would kill if she needed to, or even if she was just put out--she was definitely not a champion of justice, but nor was she tainted with evil, weighed down with mortal sin, and that was the most important part.
"Pardon me, your highness, I think I may have to rescue a friend just now," she deflected politely, and took her leave. Selkirk, for her part, seemed a bit surprised, but ultimately was glad to have her paramour all to herself. Sembians. She shook her head.
Azalea, it seemed, had been caught in the web of Lady Leuthil and her champion, and now seemed like her best chance to get close. And, as if the Fates had heard her thoughts, her way was soon blocked by a pair of royals. Princess Alexzanka of Damara had a woman in tow, a queen in truth, assuming one could be a queen without a realm to rule. "My lady," the princess began, and before she had even begun, Cassandra was already stooping in a deep bow, taking the queen's hand before she'd even thought to proffer it. For her part, the Threskan queen seemed charmed that a woman could play this role--Threskel wasn't exactly on the forefront of progressive thinking.
"Queen Ceresia Lacedaemona," Cassandra finished for her, a minor jab at the princess that didn't impinge too deeply upon their friendship. "I am your humble servant, your majesty."
"Oh my," said the prim and proper queen, a good two hands shorter than Cassandra, and surprisingly light in build for a Threskan. Still, she sensed a strong will behind that delicate hand, and was beginning to sense a near-flawless aura of a devout worshipper of the gods. "You are a most gallant knight, my...lady."
"She was just so, on the fields of Vaasa, against the armies of darkness," the princess brooded dramatically. "She stood firm against a horde of undead, bested their dark knights, and took the heart of a frozen dragon lord." She smirked as she spun the tale, but behind her levity was deep respect--after all, it was all quite true, as unreal as it seemed at the moment.
"You do me too much honor, your highness," Cassandra demured, letting go the queen's hand. "Your majesty, may I just say how honored I am to be in your presence, and how grateful I am for your foresight and wisdom in creating these games. Yours, and the king's of course," she added mock-hastily, and the queen chortled ever so slightly. "Truly you honor the gods with this gift of peace; it is one I would gladly die to defend." She parlayed her bow into a full genuflection, all but daring the queen to answer.
"Rise, my knight, you are most flattering. I but played a small role in resurrecting the ancient traditions of my forebears. Thanks ought to be to his majesty the King, for these games were truly magnificent in scope. His is the example I should wish to see repeated. Such a joy it is to see so many banners come together in peace and mutual merriment!"
She could tell the sentiment was heartfelt. Indeed, the queen expertly deflected notice of a moment's vulnerability, the hint of a tear in her eye. Humility aside, she had been the originator of the idea, and Cassandra could tell now that it wasn't just a clever play to stave off imperial aggression from her neighbors--even as devilishly clever and well-intentioned as that was. No, this was a woman who believed every word of her holy rhetoric, more so even than her priests, the Ephors, likely did. She was committed to peace in the fullest sense, and would give all she had to see it through. She was no armsman, but she was without question a warrior, a champion of peace, whose like had rarely been seen in the realms.
Cassandra allowed herself a moment's joy to appreciate that such a woman was a queen--not just a consort, but a queen regnant--even if she didn't exactly rule a mighty realm. She hadn't thought much of Ceresia at first; she'd honestly overlooked her amongst so many mighty and dangerous rulers. But now she chastened herself, and thought on the woman's potential. Perhaps the idea isn't so far-fetched, she and the prince. They were almost made for each other. She dwelt for a moment on the possibilities. Could there really be peace in her time?"I...I couldn't agree more, your majesty," she returned, and for a moment, she struggled to think of something to say. It was usually easier; something shallow and vapid, something trite and meaningless, the currents of diplomatic diction were like an old friend to her. And yet, the queen was so genuine, her smile so honest, that Cassandra was momentarily dumbstruck. Silence was deadly in these situations, even a moment's hesitation wasn't merely awkward, it was a violation of the social safety net that kept everyone from seeing behind the facade. Even a second's pause could upset one's calm, outlining every false smile, undermining every feigned laugh, until everyone involved realized just how much was going unsaid, and how little they wanted to hear it.
But this wasn't awkward...it was almost sad. She could see a hundred questions in the queen's eyes, and could tell that none of them were socially permissible, at least in this context. In those eyes, she saw admiration, inspiration, even the deliverance of lifelong faith. She realized at once that, odd as it was for her to think it, she was someone's hero. Ceresia came to her land without the context of cynicism and intrigue she'd taken for granted all her life, and saw in Cassandra the vindication of her staunch faith. And not for some display of holy magic, some grandiose demonstration of magical might--simply for being who she was supposed to be, and for being a mortal woman about it.
She remembered a young girl, watching a red-haired woman knight ride by on her splendid horse, wearing her shining armor. She was to be Queen, you see, but in that girl's mind she was the King. Everyone knew, if nobody said, that Sophia was the true hero of the day, who delivered the realm from the Mad King, thwarted the plans of assassins and conspirators, and, if it could be believed, did battle with demons and warlocks for the very soul of the land. Everyone knew, and no one would say, but that little girl would remember. She too would ride, and fight, and maybe someday save the realm.
It was so easy to forget, to let the burden of reality obscure the simple, elusive dream. And yet, Ceresia didn't see the doubts, the questions, the blood and pain, the judgments, the executions, the nagging, unspeakable fear that it was all a terrible lie, that nothing was as it seemed. No. She saw only the hero she'd longed for, she hero she deserved. A hero she longed to get to know, to understand, even to befriend. And that could never be, for heroes aren't made of that stuff. They're made of legend, and dreams, and things little girls lose on their way to adulthood.
She rose, a hero. "I am honored to serve the gods, your majesty," she offered with another bow. The queen, for her part, sighed contentedly.
"Thank you, my dear cousin, for the kind introduction. I suspect our champion has far too many admirers to entertain, and I do not wish to get in the way. I congratulate you, champion, and offer you my boon," she concluded with a curtsy, and departed with her guide...and with her hero intact.
And as reality wrapped around her again, her senses angrily reminded her she'd taken leave of them for far too long. Indeed, Azalea was already gone, and the elves with her, to parts unknown. There was a moment of panic, of indecision, as her imagination unhelpfully offered too many suggestions of what might have happened. She scanned the room, and was unlucky enough to find someone looking for her in turn.
The prince approached, having masterfully found a way to extricate himself from the growing crowd around Calliope and had reached her without being intercepted by any well-meaning champions or dignitaries. His expression was one of sympathy, concern, and that special sort of understanding two people share about a common tribulation. "I don't mean to interrupt," he began unnecessarily, "But I'm not sure if she is well practiced at wine, and there are some things better left...unsaid."
Cassandra sighed in wordless reply, letting him off the hook, as she approached. By now, her sister had attracted King Plataeus, Prince Renaud and his shameless paramour, and Gwydion, newly free of his lady and the wayward wizard, and was talking loudly enough to be heard by virtually everyone in the room, as she explained how fortuitous it was that Aznar Thrul's secret base was never found by the Pharaoh, for there were so many awesome and exciting things buried under the Alaor that...
She braced herself to interpose between her sister and a pharoah, a sceptenar, a duchess, a prince, a king, and...whatever the hell Gwydion was...when the Fates, in a fit of largesse, or perhaps contrition, decided to honor with a boon. A herald's horn cut through the din, and a clarion voice called out, over the sound of anyone so crude as to keep speaking (in other words, just Calliope), that the delegates from each realm would now assemble and bestow their honors upon the champions.
Oh, hell. It's go time.