Soul of the Fire

The Sovereign, alert and perceptive despite deteriorating health, was dressed in a glittering golden garment. A red vest emphasized the outfit's bulbous sleeves. A long, richly colored, embroidered silk stole was draped over his shoulders. Bright yellow stockings laced at midthigh to the bottom of teardrop-shaped puffed and padded breeches with colored slashes. Jewels weighed each finger. The Sovereign's head hovered low between his rounded shoulders, as if the gold medallion displaying a diamond-encrusted mountain had, over time, weighed so heavily on his neck that it bowed his back. Liver spots as large as the jewels mottled his hands.

The Sovereign had outlived four wives. With loving care, the man's latest wife dabbed at the food on his chin. Dalton doubted she was yet out of her teens.

Thankfully, even though the sons and daughters brought their spouses, they had left their children home; the Sovereign's grandchildren were insufferable brats. No one dared do anything more than chuckle approvingly at the little darlings as they rampaged unchecked. Several of them were considerably older than their latest stepgrandmother.

On the other side of the Minister from Dalton, Lady Hildemara Chanboor, in an elegant silvery pleated gown cut as low as any in the room, gestured with one finger, and the harpist, stationed before but below the head table's raised platform, gently trailed her soft music to silence. The Minister's wife directed the feast.

It actually needed no directing from her, but she insisted she be acknowledged as the regal hostess of the majestic and stately event, and therefore from time to time contributed to the proceedings by lifting her finger to silence the harpist at the appropriate time so that all might know and respect her social position. People were spellbound, believing the entire feast turned on Lady Chanboor's finger.

The harpist certainly knew when she was to let her music end for an impending slated event, but nonetheless waited and watched for that noble finger before daring to still her own. Sweat dotted her brow as she watched for Lady Chanboor's finger to rise, daring not to miss it.

Though universally proclaimed radiant and beautiful, Hildemara was rather thick of limb and feature, and had always put Dalton in mind of a sculpture of a woman chiseled by an artisan of greater ardor than talent. It was not a piece of work one wished to consider for long stretches.

The harpist took the chance of the break to reach for a cup on the floor beside her golden harp. As she bent forward for the cup, the Minister ogled her cleavage, at the same time giving Dalton an elbow in the ribs lest he miss the sight.

Lady Chanboor noticed her husband's roving eye, but showed no reaction. She never did. She relished the power she wielded, and willingly paid the requisite price.

In private, though, Hildemara occasionally clouted Bertrand with any handy object, more likely for a social slight to her than a marital indiscretion. She had no real cause to raise objections to his philandering; she was not exactly faithful, enjoying at times the discreet company of lovers. Dalton kept a mental list of their names.

Dalton suspected that, like many of her husband's dalliances, her partners were attracted to her power, and hoped they might earn a favor. Most people had no clue as to what went on at the estate, and could imagine her as nothing other than a faithful loving wife, an image she cultivated with care. The Anderith people loved her as the people of other lands loved a queen.

In many ways, she was the power behind the office of Minister; she was adept, knowledgeable, focused. While Bertrand was often at play, Hildemara, behind closed doors, issued orders. He relied on his wife's expertise, often deferring to her in material matters, disinterested in what patronage she doled out to miscreants, or the cultural carnage she left in her wake.

No matter what she might think of her husband in private, Hildemara worked zealously to preserve his dominion. If he fell, she would surely crash down with him. Unlike her husband, Hildemara was rarely drunk and discreetly confined whatever couplings she had to the middle of the night Dalton knew better than to underestimate her. She tended cobwebs of her own.

The company gasped with delighted surprise when a «sailor» sprang from behind the marzipan ship, piping a merry fisher's tune on his fife while accompanying himself on a tabor hung from his belt. Teresa giggled and clapped, as did many others.

She squeezed her husband's leg under the table. "Oh, Dalton, did you ever think we would live at such a splendid place, come to know such splendid people, and see such splendid things?"

"Of course."