Chapter XL: Dinner Party

Rykoshet was not happy. Unhappy was an understatement in point of fact. His mood was downright gloomy. Yet for the first time in two months, that mindset stood out in stark contrast to his surroundings.

Castle Oztroja was in subdued celebration. The glut of refugees from Jeuno whom had come to inhabit the massive walls of the fortress had, in the three weeks since their rescue from the darkened catacombs of Garlaige Citadel, gradually recovered their strength and, in time, their hope. The sections of the immense fortress set aside for their recovery had quickly blossomed into a maze of shelters and hovels, which, under the guidance of the famous doctor Monbereaux, became gradually more organized. Not only that, but Wolfgang had been surprisingly receptive to the idea of incorporating the surviving Ducal Guards into the Yagudo regulars, and as the Jeunoans renewed their bodies, so too did their spirits return. In the last week, several hundred of them had come forth asking to join this burgeoning force growing in the heart of the Yagudo stronghold.

Castle Oztroja, nearly dead when Those Guys had come upon it, was blossoming into a new town within the impenetrable walls, where Yagudo and the Children of Altana lived and worked side by side. With the sky above reminding them of what increasingly dark times they lived in, such a happening was nothing short of miraculous. It was as if there was but a lone bastion of sanity amongst the madness. Today, the inhabitants had decided to revel in their survival, to celebrate having life. A grand banquet was being prepared. Rykoshet was to sit at the head of a table where the Jeunoans and the Yagudo would break bread together, and honor their treaty, however forced by circumstance it may be. The Yagudo did not understand the ways of the Children of Altana, nor did they even hold Altana sacred, but they found in being united against the demons a bond they could latch on to. The mutual enemy had created the most unlikely of friends.

The attack by the demons, the Kindred, the Yagudo had called them, was a touchy subject for the Beastmen. It had been a long while before any had been willing to broach the topic, but in the end Daa Bola the Seer had finally made a startling confession. The Kindred had come with the branch of peace extended, offering the Yagudo a chance to rejoin the ranks of the Shadow Lord as they had done in the Crystal War, some twenty years past. Tzee Xicu, well remembering the outcome, and that her people had been practically forced into servitude during the Great War, had rejected the Kindred. They opted to remain free, but their freedom had come at a terrible price. The blood of their fallen seemed enough motivation for them to accept the hand of friendship when offered from Jeuno.

It also explained Tzee Xicu’s cryptic words to Rykoshet upon her defeat.

So two peoples who would fight for life together had come together, and as it had become clear that they would, in fact, accept one another and live peacefully, the upcoming celebration had been planned. It was spoken of jokingly at first, but slowly, somehow, it had turned into a serious discussion, until finally they reached this very evening. Oztroja was a bustle of activity as the Yagudo donned ceremonial vestments, some of the soldiers retrieving suits of armor not worn for twenty years or more. The Jeunoan Guards burnished their armor as smartly as they would have for any official state dinner at the Ducal Palace. Clothcrafters worked with whatever materials they could lay their hands on to create dresses for the women and passable raiment for the menfolk. It would not just be a perfunctory banquet – this was to encompass all of the multitude now inhabiting the castle.

Baeladar was beside himself with lists, making sure everything was planned to the minutest detail. The kitchens were ablaze with activity as he rushed to and fro making sure that Yagudo cuisine did not get mixed up with the rest, checking to ensure that there would be enough to satisfy the entire castle, and trying to discern which Yagudo spirit was closest to wine. Some of the Jeunoans had thankfully preserved enough Rolanberries that Baeladar had been able to oversee a fresh cask of Rolanwine being pressed, which was to be served at Rykoshet’s table. The dinner itself was just one of a hundred tasks he busied himself with, as the raven-haired Paladin seemed completely caught up in the fervor which had swept Oztroja.

Danienne was similarly engulfed. Having so many fresh recruits in addition to the Jeunoan guards had been overwhelming at first, until she began breaking down her tiny army into units. Four distinct companies had emerged – one headed by Mee Deggi the Punisher, with Huu Xalmo the Savage as his Lieutenant. Mee Deggi had been allowed to hand-pick his soldiers, and had created a unit of devout, steadfast Yagudo templars, a good number of them choosing to fight with their bare hands, like their commander. A select number at their core brandished great katana. The second unit, under the command of Wolfgang, with the now-recovered Raidom at his right hand, was made up of the new recruits which daily came from the Jeunoan people as they found the inspiration to take up arms. Its backbone was made of the surviving Ducal Guards, all of them fiercely loyal to Wolfgang, and far more experienced than any besides the most seasoned Yagudo in the Castle. Danienne herself, assisted by Icon, was in charge of the third unit. Danienne took a little bit of everything, from the red-masked Yagudo with their strange mystic abilities to the rawest Jeunoan recruit.

Those were the three units ever present in the castle. She had told Rykoshet there was a fourth, but he had yet to see it materialize. Perhaps she had meant that she was only planning a fourth.

Whatever the case there, Danienne had devoted her energies to prepping her forces for impeccable behavior, a simple of pride and unity for the two peoples. It was something to say that the Beastmen and the Children of Altana were working together towards a common goal, to actually see it in action was something else altogether. Rykoshet could see the eyes of civilians light up with wonder every time one of Danienne’s patrols of mixed Yagudo and Jeunoan soldiers passed by.

Everyone had found some task to occupy them. Eig and Kee Taw the Nightingale were composing a new song to be played during the dinner. Darutaru and Liyah set a series of charms throughout the fortress to ensure that a spectacular lightshow would be enjoyed during the festivities, yet not one so grand as could be seen outside the castle walls. Decay, only recently out of bed following his bout with Serket’s poison, had – wisely, in Rykoshet’s opinion – removed himself from the celebration, and chose instead to resume his study of the magicite beneath Oztroja. Another unresolved issue gnawing at the mind of the blonde-haired Elvaan.

Battousai, of course, was already deep in revel. He swaggered past Rykoshet deliberately at one point, a doe-eyed Jeunoan girl on each arm, recounting them with tales of how he saved his helpless brother from the clutches of the Roc. Odessa had been there to prevent a calamity, but even after Rykoshet’s younger brother had vanished down a dark hall, she’d had to talk him out of following him to plant a fist between his eyes. As night crept towards them and he was forced to go put on his armor and don his newest weapon, a massive polearm which had belonged to Tzee Xicu, the incident vanished from his mind, but no sooner had he entered the grand foyer, converted into a banquet hall for the occasion, then he saw Battousai, now with a third girl added to his entourage, flashing him a grin from his place at the head of the table, in the seat set aside for Rykoshet.

Vile was nowhere to be found. The last anyone had seen of him, he’d set a small Jeunoan Hume child on fire for asking if he wanted to play during the feast, and only Konstantine’s quick intervention had prevented disaster. No one had gone looking for him after that.

So it was that Rykoshet finally sat at the head of a full table. It stretched out almost too far to see the end, Yagudo, Elvaan, Hume, Tarutaru, Mithra, and even the few Galka inhabitants of Jeuno whom had survived sitting side by side. Celeres, his massive arms laden with trays, came forth every few minutes to serve up another fresh helping from the kitchen, keeping food and drink in plentiful amounts. Music and magic filled the air, and the miracle of life was celebrated all around them. At his right side, Odessa urged Rykoshet to smile, which he did weakly, before glancing to his left to see Battousai grinning like the coeurl that ate the canary. The little good cheer he pretended to have vanished instantly.

It was not the banquet that Rykoshet was concerned with. He didn’t object to the using up of their food stores or the gratuitous use of magic. Indeed, he loved that they were free enough in this spot to come together in celebration; that they had anything to celebrate at all. He recognized the significance of what they were doing, and knew how important it was to so many people. Everyone at the table, everyone through the entire castle, they had been through a great deal. The preparations for the great feast had temporarily taken their minds away from their dire situation, and the banquet itself allowed them to forget it altogether, if only for a few hours. Even the night sky seemed natural in the open-air areas of the castle, so that people could look up and not remember how the day was nearly indistinguishable from the evening now. Rykoshet would gladly put up with his brother for awhile if it meant seeing the faces of those whom he had promised to protect fill with happiness again.

None of the things going on gave Rykoshet any concern. It was the fact that he had no idea what to do next.

As if sent and preserved by Altana, Raidom had managed to find his way to Oztroja, not even knowing there were people there, and almost by chance Icon had discovered him. The Lieutenant’s story had led to the rescue of the Jeunoan refugees, and the current bustle of activity in Oztroja. It was inspiring to be sure, and not a day had gone by where Rykoshet questioned if he had done the right thing or not. His actions had saved countless lives.

Then, in the three weeks since, nothing. No one had come from San d’Oria or Bastok, no stranded refugees from Windurst seeking asylum or aid for their country. Not another living soul had crossed their way for nearly a month. More and more he felt as if all he had done was brought people clinging to a life raft ashore on an island encroached upon by an ocean of death. With every passing day when no word came of any new survivors being found, the tide came a little closer.

More metaphors about water. He chewed at a leg of some meat dish, not really tasting it. It seemed everything he thought about went back to water since his battle with the Roc. Not just water, but a river, shrouded in mist, with a man standing upon the surface. Every night when he dreamed, he could see the man, beckoning to him from the river, yet Rykoshet could never find a way to reach him. As the days passed, his gestures seemed to grow more and more urgent, but even with a sense of desperation now attached to his actions, Rykoshet could never find a way to reach the man in the river. The misty air around the water had grown darker and darker over time, and it seemed that the inky blackness was seeping into the water itself, threatening to surround the man whose face Rykoshet could just barely make out, yet he still could not reach him . . .

The last time he had the dream, just a few days earlier, after all the time he spent fruitlessly calling out to the man, he had finally heard a response. A voice soft and deep, coming not from the figure but from the river itself, telling him one thing, one sentence, before he was jolted back into consciousness. It had said “I will come for you.”

But upon waking, Rykoshet had no more answers than he had in the dream.

“Rykoshet,” he heard at his side, “you’re doing it again.”

The Elvaan was startled by the voice at his side, and turned to see Odessa, her silver hair tied into a single braid which reached down her chest, tied with an exquisite ribbon, staring at him with her soft brown eyes. She had not exasperation in them, as was usual, but concern.

“Are you alright?” she asked quietly, trying not to be overheard. “You really don’t seem yourself tonight.”

He searched for words, but had none to offer. His lips finally curled into what he hoped resembled a smile enough for her to forget her concerns, but whatever happened seemed to make her even more worried. Rykoshet remembered that he might have to practice smiling.

A ringing sound sounded out through the hall, and gradually the dull roar of revelry came to a halt. The music was muted, and the glowing spheres of magic in the air dulled, conversation coming to a close as eyes focused on a man at the center of the grand table. A silver spoon tapped against a crystal glass, calling everyone’s attention to Baeladar, gleaming like a lighthouse beacon in his white-and-silver mail, a deep red mantle spread out from his shoulders to brush the floor. As always, there seemed to not be a speck of dirt anywhere within three feet of him. One hand clasped behind his back, he raised his glass, a symbolic gesture instantly mimicked by all those around the banquet table.

“A toast,” he proposed, “to our new alliance, and our survival.” A murmur of agreement rose around him, along with scattered cheers, and he continued as if urged on by their approval. “We have, against all odds, gathered together in this most unlikely of locations, and despite whatever tensions existed beforehand, learned to coexist.” A few Jeunoans, deep in Yagudo spirits, slapped some of their feathered companions on the back in appreciation, a gesture which, even more remarkable considering the circumstances, didn’t ruffle any feathers. “Together,” Baeladar intoned, his face as stony serious as it always was, “we shall persevere.” He raised his glass high, and all around him, voices called out in agreement. “Together,” he repeated.

“Together!” a thousand responses came. “Together!” a thousand more voices called from out in the halls. “Together!” it rang one more time, as in unison it seemed everyone in the halls of Castle Oztroja joined in the chant. An approving look on his brow as cheers and whoops of celebration rang out around him, Baeladar nodded down the table towards Rykoshet, lowering his glass to his lips.

Baeladar sputtered once, then leaped back with an exclamation as his glass fell to the ground and shattered. His wine never reached his lips.

Rykoshet rose in alarm. All around the table, people were crying out, and the sound of glass breaking echoed countless times through the grand hall. Weapons were drawn in alarm, and shouts of confusion began overpowering all other noises.

“What’s happening?” Battousai demanded, and Rykoshet turned to see him already out of his chair, hands on the hilt of the great sword which, only a few weeks prior, had been slung over the back of his elder brother. “Are we being attacked?”

Before Rykoshet could answer, his glass, of its own accord, tipped over, joining every other glass around the table in spilling out over the dark blue cloth spread out over the grand banquet table. Yet the spill did not stain. Instead it . . . rippled.

The entire table rippled, shifting and undulating as people backed away from it in fear. It rose up and crashed down again, shifting and turning, never leaving its place over the table, yet coming more to life with every passing second. Unbelievably, plates and dishes began sinking into the surface, floating visibly just beneath the surface of the cloth. One woman even fearfully reached into it, snatching a plate free with a wild grab, and her hands emerged soaking wet. She fainted almost instantly.

Rykoshet watched in disbelief as he realized he was looking at a river.

At the center of the table, the cloth began rushing in, driven by some invisible rapid, crashing together, rising higher and higher. From the surface of the cloth, a mist began to rise, and the partygoers backed away from it with terror as it swirled around them, hovering just over the table. The gathering tide crashed higher yet, and before their astonished eyes, a shape began taking form. People gasped as a hooded face crested the surface of the tablecloth river, rising up with a rush like the crashing tide to reveal a man, stepping out of nowhere to stand atop the surface of the river which had once been a banquet table.

Rykoshet’s dark eyes were wide as his open mouth.

The figure from his dreams stared back at him.

Ripples followed after him, stopping as if the edge of the table were the banks of this impossible river, as the robed man came forward. He shimmered and quavered as if he himself were made of water, and indeed it seemed there was no point where the river ended and the man began. Both were one, and both were coming straight for Rykoshet.

“No!” someone cried out, and shockingly, Fated burst forth, his sword drawn. Before anyone could stop him, the young knight thrust forward, seeking to cut down the intruder where he stood.

The man from the river raised his arm and let the blade sink in through his hand. It vanished in his arm, which shook and rippled. His shadowed visage turned, and the man raised a single finger to his lips.

“Shhhhh,” he whispered, and the voice came not from the figure, but from the surface of the entire enchanted river itself. Fated’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, and his sword, coated with a sheen of water, dropped to the floor as the Paladin collapsed into slumber upon the castle floor.

People cried out and weapons came forth, but the mist around the man suddenly spread out, blanketing the room surrounding him. All over, Yagudo and Jeunoan alike succumbed, their limbs going slack as they clattered downwards. Sleep overtook them without discretion, and silence fell over the castle as in short order, the mist claimed every living person for the realm of dreams.

Everyone, it seemed, except for Rykoshet. Odessa and Battousai lay unconscious on the floor behind him as he stood, the mists parted around him, staring down the man from the river.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice no more than a whisper.

“You know who I am.” Once again, the voice came not from the man, but from the river itself.

“Why are you here?” Rykoshet continued, admitting that he did know who the man was. It was the same figure from his dreams, it was clear that they both knew as much.

The man paused, the water-which-was-cloth at the edges of his robes waving slightly. Two hands came up to the hood of his robe, and as he pushed it back, it was if a waterfall flowing down a cliff more than garment being altered.

Beneath the hood, Rykoshet found himself staring at eyes of the purest blue, shining like the sky reflected in the surface of a crystal lake. Framing the eyes was a Hume face, with flowing blonde hair streaming down from his head, and a bright yellow beard covering his cheeks. He fixed those eyes on Rykoshet, and it seemed almost like clouds were drifting beneath their surface. His arms dropped to his side, chin raised as he spoke, the entire room echoing his words.

“I am Lethe, herald of the Four Winds. You are needed, Rykoshet, and time is short indeed.”