65

A month and its twin pass behind you, and the autumnal equinox approaches. The mugginess of late summer is missed by none, replaced as it is by the elegance of fall.

You feel you've come into your own in the Court, less a fixture of novelty and more a part of the regular state of affairs for Their Majesties and the courtiers. Old hands on the staff tell you how remarkable it is to see you acting practically as a licensed fool, given that Westfenster has never had a tradition of the same. But, of course, Westfenster has never had you before, you think, allowing your head to swell just enough to upset your haberdasher.

The fact that the Bardbrood is eagerly anticipating your pages also contributes to a degree of cranial inflation. You jot out a word or two as you can, but talent naturally cannot be rushed. It is a season of lingering on your accomplishments for once, and appreciating the fruits of your years of labor and struggle.

One afternoon, you're noodling about on a fife while the courtiers eat sweetbreads and wait for King Saul to appear for the hour of petitions when raised voices filter through to the Throne Room.

You lower the volume of your playing, keeping an ear cocked. One of the voices is Prinxe Hail—but can the other really be His Majesty?

"I've never known the King to raise his voice like that," says a scullery-maid, clustered with you in a knot of gossipy commoners.

The din dissipates after a few moments, leaving the Throne Room still except for the rustling of curious whispers. Before long, a white-faced Herald slinks into the Throne Room through the kitchens to give a report.

"Prinxe Hail is leaving again."

Onward