"Chapter III-A Dungeon of Words" by James P-W

Chapter 3

A Dungeon of Words

Leagues away, in the nation of Gueltor, within sight of the huge snow-capped mountains that girdled and marked the boundaries of the nation of Bregon, Ceridwen Lir sat in her bedchamber in the gloomy castle that had belonged to her family for eleven generations. She was sitting in an ancient, ornately-carved chair of hickory, which had darkened with age, reading The Travels of Pryderi the Brave.  

In the corners of her room four wrought-iron braziers held beds of glowing coals, and a roaring fire blazed in the hearth not three paces from her, but she felt the wet chill of the season in her bones all the same. Outside in the dark, the wind stirred the leafless branches of the dead moss-covered rowan outside, which thrust from the ground like a skeletal black hand. The dead twigs scratched on the wet glass panes of her bedchamber, sounding nothing more so than bony fingers of a dead man clawing to get inside.

The bothersome sound echoed off the cold stone floor hollowly, grating her nerves, until at last she could bear it no longer and stood up and dropped her book onto the dusty velvet cushion she had been sitting on.

She’d hardly been able to concentrate on the words anyway.

Downstairs her father would be battling the High Lord Cerdic Torsten – The Shining Sword in the South, Lord of the Fell-Lands, and Defender of the Passage – in the ancient strategic game of wooden wisdom. The aging Lord Kairne Lir was a superb commander in real life and was famed to have never have had his carved pieces outmaneuvered on the battlefield of checkered black-and-white squares, and High Lord Torsten was a wool-headed lout, yet Ceridwen knew that the game would last for several hours more. It would not do for her father to disgrace his guest.

            Where Lord Lir was a highly disciplined man who had not let the years soften his hardness, Cerdic Torsten was a man whose prime had long past. Though a man once famed for his bravery and might in battle, age had left him with little hair, a hanging gut, and a fondness for pinching serving girls’ bottoms. He had outlived three wives – the last died not a year ago – yet he had little respect for the sacredness of wedlock, having fathered sixteen baseborn sons and daughter with various women. Somehow, the thirteen trueborn children he had fathered with his wives had all been girls. It would not do for a bastard son to inherit all his lands and titles, so the old High Lord was searching for another wife. None of this would have concerned Ceridwen Lir except for the fact that House Lir was poor, Lord Torsten was very rich, and she was young, single, and beautiful. 

            Her father had offered Cerdic Torsten her hand in marriage.

            Ceridwen had practiced sewing and the harp and elocution and dancing and court-speech and smiling coyly and every civilized womanly art there was to learn, hoping one day to seduce a beautiful, young, and valiant knight who would win a jousting tournament with her favor – a perfect lily, alabaster and pure as snow, she had always imagined it, in honor of the sigil of House Lir – tied to his spear with a blood red ribbon. Her perfect knight had golden hair falling to broad shoulder in curls soft as rose petals, cerulean eyes like the sky set in strong yet gentle face, a full mouth that recited love poems and enchanting words, and a body rippling with shapely, powerful muscle…

            The lecherous High Lord had none of these things, nor was he even kind or intelligent or funny. She would give him a male heir and then be discarded like a rag doll for a wench, or ten.

            Someone knocked on the door of her bedchamber. That would be Anna, her chambermaid.     

            “Come in,” she said, somewhat vaguely. Anna opened the doors and tiptoed in quietly, as though walking too heavily would shatter something sacred. A stupid little grin was plastered on her features.

            “Are you excited, Milady?” she inquired in a high-pitched voice, her face glowing. Anna was bothersome. Giddy and feather-brained, she provided Ceridwen with naught but the latest washerwomen’s gossip.

Her old handmaid had been named Myrtle, who was of an age with Ceridwen. With thick dark curls and rosebud lips, she had kissed more boys than Ceridwen could count on her two hands without proceeding to her toes. Late into the night they had talked in hushed giggles about what it was like, with her imagining it with Ceridwen the Fair and her handsome young knight who rescued her from the dreary castle, instead of just Myrtle and pimply Wil the stableboy. Yet for all the blather they shared, Myrtle could also be kind and compassionate, and had comforted her all the times Ceridwen had been rebuked harshly by her stern parents.

 The Lady Rhiannon Lir had found out about the friendship they shared and had put Myrtle in the kitchen as a scullion, saying that she was a bad influence. She is a servant, Ceridwen, and not anything like us, her mother had said. Of a wealthy House she may not be, but proud she was. You are supposed to rule these people, not befriend them! Yet Ceridwen had felt more of a connection with Myrtle than scatterbrained Anna or even any of the spoiled noble children she had been introduced to.

            “Apprehensive, Anna. I am apprehensive.” Ceridwen finally responded. Full of dread was closer to the truth. 

            Right away Anna began talking about how grand and romantic it all was, words rushing out of her mouth faster than water in a waterfall, as though she had only been waiting for her turn to speak. She took Ceridwen’s hand and led her to her dressing room without pausing for a breath.

            A brass tub filled with steaming water stood ready for her, and Anna helped her out of her clothes. Ceridwen settled into the water. It was scalding, and gooseflesh prickled up around her entire body.

            She would have told Anna to stop talking, but she knew it would make her as grumpy and moody as a child, so she resigned to the chatter and closed her eyes. Anna scrubbed her with a soft-haired brush and some rose soap until her pale skin glowed healthily from head to toe. Then she helped Ceridwen out of the tub and immediately wrapped thick, fluffy towels around her.

            The process of getting her hair fixed and her face powdered was nothing short of an ordeal. Anna continued talking as she gave Ceridwen’s auburn hair two hundred brush-strokes until it became glossy and smooth as a polished rock. She truly has the gift of the tongue, thought Ceridwen wryly as Anna took an extremely quick breath between her twittering. I don’t think I could stop her anymore than I could stop a river.

            Finally Ceridwen’s hair was finished, tied up in a simple yet elegant knot. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes looked innocent and wide as doe’s. Anna helped her into a blue sleeved bodice that accentuated her modest bust without being too daring. She then wound a slender strip of silk around her delicate neck, the white lily of House Lir embroidered in the center with small freshwater pearls. 

            Ceridwen studied herself in the old mirror Anna set up for her, the glass made milky by age. I look virginal, she thought. A proper maiden, and perhaps too much so. I hardly seem the type of woman to interest his Lordship.

“You look beautiful, milady,” cooed Anna. “High Lord Torsten shall have to fight for your hand in marriage tonight, for all the men will want you.” With any luck he’ll get killed, thought Ceridwen grimly. 

            Anna dabbed a little bit of rose perfume onto her neck. “Dinner will be ready soon, milady, and at long last you’ll have a chance to talk to his Lordship.”

            Ceridwen waited until this moment in her chamber, wishing she could run away from the gloomy castle and leave all its woes behind. 

She wanted to see the rolling hills of Bregon, with the heather, the gorse, and the sheep grazing on grassy slopes at the feet of giant mountains. She wanted to see the great cities in the south; Othlion, Arnon, Caer Erenglion and all the others, and see the huge ports in Dravnor where hundreds of ship from around the Known World came in to unload their cargos. She wanted to swim in the ocean, and look upon the mining island of Orme, with its great mountain that spewed fiery, molten rock....

            As she daydreamed of the great world out there, waiting to be discovered, her eye caught the tapestry on the wall. It depicted a scene from her favorite childhood tale of the doomed lovers Iseult and Einar. It was Iseult she loved, a young princess who went traveling, outwitting and outfighting most men she met. Sometimes as a child, Ceridwen dreamed of being Iseult – of course without the tragic part of dying of a broken heart when her beloved Einar the Just was killed by the necromancer Gore Twlcaister. Iseult, at least, had chosen her own husband...

            She reflected upon the last conversation she had shared with her mother on the matter. Wary of her mother’s legendary temper, she had woven a careful path of words.

The Lady Rhiannon Lir fixed Ceridwen with hard eyes. “House Lir needs this, my girl. You know that. Garret and Willym were both killed in the Rift War, and we have no other children to marry off. If you become an old spinster, we won't be able to find any respectable lord with more than a handful of land in his name to marry you. If you don't marry now, and to someone powerful, House Lir will dwindle and die.”

            A lump formed in Ceridwen's throat, but she forced her voice to be steady. Tears squeezed into her eyes. "I know. I just-". Rhiannon looked at her intently, as though waiting for her to put words to what she knew Ceridwen was feeling. Ceridwen couldn’t make herself say it. She backed down and said nothing. Rhiannon face turned content and satisfied.

            “There’s a good daughter.” Ceridwen felt exhausted, the last of her will trampled.

            The dinner bell rang, snapping her out of her reverie. All at once her stomach gave an alarming twinge. Ceridwen forced herself to breathe, wiped hear sweaty hands dry, and opened the door of her chamber.

            The old knight Sir Breunor Parry stood waiting outside to accompany her. His rusty armor had finally been cleaned, she was pleased to see, but his graying wispy hair and beard were far from groomed. His famous threadbare wine-dark cloak hung from his bony shoulders, barely reaching the backs of his knees. Scoffed at as Breunor Shortcloak around the castle, he still hadn’t mended the holes from where moths had eaten through the wool. Ceridwen took his arm graciously, trying hard to ignore the smell of old meat and unwashed body that hung about his person.

Together they walked through the numerous dreary, narrow halls, arm-in-arm until they reached the foot of the winding newel stairs that led to hall. “I leave you here, my good lady,” he said, bowing. “May you enjoy the feast and find great happiness with the High Lord Torsten.” 

She ascended the staircase herself, the winding path around the center column starting to make her dizzy. Despite the new reed torches burning readily in the brackets on the wall, the staircase was dark and gloomy. An oppressive pall hung in the air, and she felt as though it was suffocating her under its weight. Finally she reached the landing, which was a small area behind the dining hall’s dais so she and the Lady Lir could make a dramatic entrance. Her father was already on the raised stone platform, waiting for all the guests to arrive. Already a noise like hundreds of bees buzzing filled the hall. Wood scraped on stone as the lords, ladies, and guests choose seats at the three long trestle tables set up, the sound magnified by the cavernous space.

            Her mother gave her a thin-lipped smile. Ceridwen returned it, though she was afraid if she opened her mouth she might be sick. Within minutes the two of them were joined by Eadward Peake the castellan, three of her father’s lesser lords, High Lord Cerdic Torsten himself, and two of his lords. The High Lord bent his knee and kissed her hand. She forced herself to accept the greeting graciously, rather than show the revulsion boiling inside her. Her mother gave her another smile…

Finally, the moment was ripe. Kairne Lir’s voice boomed in the hall. Of small build he may be, but physically he was very powerful. “My good lords and ladies, the feast shall commence shortly!” Cheering ensued from the boisterous crowd. “But first I should like to present the honored guests at my table tonight. I give you my own good lords Ingeld Osbearn, Reid Sigeric, Alfric Stigand, and my castellan Eadward Peake.” The four named men walked up the behind the dais, using the stairway there that was hidden by a huge hanging velvet curtain to appear onto the stone platform.

“May they serve you well!” murmured the crowd as one.

“I also give you my dear wife, the beautiful Lady Rhiannon Lir…”

“Aye, and may she serve you well, as well,” shouted one of the rowdier guests as Rhiannon presented herself on the dais. A wave of laughter rippled across the room. Lord Lir waited patiently for it to die down before continuing.

“…and my fair young daughter, Ceridwen Lir.” Ceridwen walked up the stairs and pushed aside the velvet curtain to step into limelight. She took her seat, in the carved wooden chair farthest from her father, where she knew she was expected to sit. The important guests would be seated at his left and right hand. I am, after all, only his daughter, she thought bitterly.

“I feel that the time is ripe to make an important announcement.” He paused, with the double intent of creating a dramatic effect and checking that his audience was still listening. “This very evening, over the sacred game of wooden wisdom, his High Lordship asked me for my daughter’s hand in marriage.” A wave of excited, hushed whispers burst out across the audience. A wave of nausea hit Ceridwen with the force of a lightning bolt and her hands clenched, embedding half-moons of nail marks into her palms. She swayed in her seat but forced a pleased smile onto her face. She immediately tried to focus on the words of the tale of Einar and Iseult. His sword was a quill, darkened with blood which was the ink in which he wrote the terrible calligraphy of death.  He danced among the enemy, smiting them onto the cold ground, dealing out death to the spawn of evil…

 “No man likes to give up his own beloved daughter, but the burden is lessened greatly when the man asking is as noble and gracious as the High Lord. Therefore, without further ado, I present to you my honored guest, the illustrious High Lord Cerdic Torsten, The Shining Sword in the South, Lord of the Fell-Lands, and Defender of the Passage, and his Lords Herne Aiken and Robert Byllwerd.” Tumultous applause greeted Cerdic’s entrance onto the dais, and the High Lord grinned cheekily and acknowledged them with a wave of a wrinkled hand. Sagging jowls wobbled as he did.  

Lord Lir lifted a deep goblet filled with a rich dark wine in his hand. “And so, my good friends, a toast is in order,” he called. There was good-natured grumbling at this remark, and everybody present stood up. “It shall be in haste, I promise, for my belly is rumbling as well!” He cleared his throat. “For peace! For happiness! For health!” At each of these, the lords and ladies cheered. “And for the glory of our two Houses, soon to be joined by blood and the sacred union of wedlock!” This final toast was cheered the loudest.

There was a momentary silence as wine was drunk greedily from goblets and horns, and then sounds of merriment and feasting broke out. A group of musicians, with lutes, dulcimers, pipes, drums, and flutes, began a lively tune, though laughter and chatter all but drowned them out.

Six servants staggered into the hall, bearing above them a silver platter with a whole roast wild boar upon it, smothered in a spicy herb sauce. They stopped at the dais, and sliced off the juiciest cuts for Lord Kairne Lir and all those seated with him, before proceeding to the trestle tables where the guests were seated.  

Ceridwen carefully set down her slender silver goblet, having taken but a small swallow of the wine during the toast. If her mother thought to loosen her tongue and warm her to Lord Torsten by making her drunk, she would be sadly mistaken. And it wasn’t just stubbornness on her part…Cerdic seemed completely disinterested in his bride-to-be as he regaled the lords on the dais with a bawdy tale. He concluded with, “Well, there’s more behind the name The Shining Sword in the South than just battle against Amaethrond during the Rift War”. His Lords Aiken and Byllwerd guffawed stupidly, while her father managed a polite chuckle.

The jest missed its mark on the castellan Eadward Peake. “And why exactly is that?” he inquired, confused. Talented at managing the staff and expenses of the castle he may be, but socially conscious he was not.

            Lord Lir coughed pointedly. The conversation continued, interrupted by Lord Torsten grabbing a serving girl around the waist and pinching her bottom. “More wine, girl!”

            Ceridwen tried to ignore the bile building in her gut by focusing again on the story. The truth cut like a fiery dagger deep into her heart. “No,” she sobbed. “You can’t die here and leave me. I need you!” The lifeless, soft face of her lover gazed back. Only in death had he found the peace that had evaded him through his life. She collapsed onto his chest. No longer did it rise and fall with life’s sweet breath. “Come back. Come back!”

 “There are some things in life you cannot change, girl,” said the necromancer. “Fate weaves with a mind of its own and a hand of iron.” A grim smile spread across his face.

            All of her father’s retainers and friends seemed there, as well as a good sized party of guests whose faces she couldn’t recognize who must have come with High Lord Torsten. The guests from southern Gueltor were bedecked in extravagant finery. Some of the women had collars lined with fox furs, and large gems were set into their elaborate towers of hair. The men were no less adorned, with fancily-cut doublets of velvet and cloaks of samite interwoven with threads of gold. The local lords and ladies had older coats and dresses, all showing wear.  Her own mother had on less jewelry than any of the other visiting Ladies.  

            The hall itself gave no hint of the relative poverty of House Lir. Quite spacious, it was warmed by two massive fireplaces on either side, each large enough to fit several full-grown men inside with enough room to stand up. From the ceiling beams hung banners; either crimson with the white lily of House Lir or midnight blue with the cream winged horse of House Torsten. From the smooth stone walls were suspended huge tapestries displaying great battles, stag-hunts, memorable marriages, and scenes from legend. Though very old, their intricate threads woven with thousands of hours and dozens of skilled hands emanated an air of magnificence. Stretched down either side of the walls of the hall, they stood like silent reminders of the greatness that had once blessed House Lir.

The feast itself was like something out of a tapestry. Food was heaped high on every table; it must have cost her father a fortune he didn’t have. Perhaps that was why Castellan Peake had such a pinched air about him – although come to think of it, he usually did. There were plates of black sausages, roast venison, suckling pigs, clams, stuffed duck, pheasant, crab, and river trout, not to mention the tureens of buttered peas, blood puddings, roast potatoes, wheels of cheese, honeyed parsnips, lamprey pies, steak-and-kidney pies, pasties, and all a manner of other delights. Wine and ale flowed freely, and already several guests were hopelessly drunk. Fat Ty, head of the castle guard, was already passed out on one of the tables, still clutching the goblet of wine that had finished him. A puddle of drool was forming on the table from his open mouth.

            Ceridwen spent the night absent-mindedly chasing around a piece of meat through gravy and potatoes with her fork. Even the three acrobats that appeared around mid-night couldn’t hold her interest for long. She clapped politely as the balls danced through their hands in patterns, bouncing high and low, though she wasn’t really concentrating on them at all. Somehow just sitting near Cerdic had robbed her of both appetite and sensible thought. She tried to focus on the conversation between her father and his lords – they were talking in worried voices about the Kindred of the Flame, and the sickness of the High King Roland, a possible alliance in the South, and the possibility of war – but it held her interest no more than a seize held water.

            Finally the desserts arrived. Pears and rhubarb tarts and honey cakes with cream were brought out, along with apple crumbles and strawberry flans and pumpkin tarts and a flaky pastry filled with chopped nuts and honey. Though her stomach protested at the thought of food, Ceridwen managed to finish a small blackberry-and-honey tart.

            Yawning with both ennui and genuine sleepiness, Ceridwen finally begged her leave from the table. Thankfully, her father granted it, and she stood up. “I wish you all kind dreams. It was an honor to make the acquaintance of you, Lords Aiken and Byllwerd, and you, High Lord Cerdic, my betrothed. I bid you all a good night.” Ceridwen had been taught well in speech; though she couldn’t bear to even think of Cerdic as her betrothed, the lies and formal speech slid off her tongue easily.

            She had just started climbing down the stairs behind the dais, concealed by the velvet drapery, when she heard Cerdic speak. “Perhaps I should escort the young maiden to her bed,” he suggested. “The night is dark and cold.” She turned slowly back towards the dais, dread bubbling inside of her. An excuse formed itself in her head but before it could find its way to her tongue her mother had spoken.

            “How very noble of you, my Lord,” replied Lady Lir, smiling indulgently. “You speak truly; nighttime holds many fears for the soft of heart.” As Cerdic pushed back his chair and stood, none too steadily, Lady Lir’s face gave a satisfied smile. “Sleep well, my daughter.”

            Cerdic walked to her and took her arm. The night does hold many fears for maidens such as I, mother, reflected Ceridwen bitterly as they disappeared down the stairs, trying not the grit her teeth. Just not for such things as dragons or demons or sorcerers.

Luckily Breunor Parry had seen her and was waiting at the bottom of the newel stairs that led up to the dais. She had never been more glad the see the old knight, moth-eaten cloak and all. “With your leave, my Lordship, I will take your lady betrothed back to her chambers. The corridors are dark and confusing, and his Lord Lir would be most embarrassed if his honored guest missed the festivities for getting lost.”

Ceridwen could see the consideration in Cerdic Torsten’s watery eyes. He wanted more wine, more food, and more serving girls, she knew, yet some might see it as most unchivalrous to not escort his wife-to-be to bed. Please, she prayed silently. Please let the wine have dulled his senses…There was a very pregnant pause as Cerdic mulled it over in his mind.

Finally, stomach writhing, she put a hand lightly on his arm. “I would not want my husband-to-be to know the whereabouts of my bedchamber,” she said with a hint of sultriness. Hopefully the dim light was enough to hide the disgust on her face. She leaned in a little closer and dropped her voice. “Not yet, at least…”

            A lewd smile grew on Cerdic’s face. “Aye, milady. It’ll be a little secret. Don’t you like secrets?” He leaned in and gave her a very sloppy kiss. A cloud of wine hung about him in the air. “Sleep well, my maiden.” He winked then turned to stagger back up the stairs. A few stairs up he belched loudly.

            Ceridwen watched him go, but her feeling of unease stayed with her. “Escort me to my bedchamber, my good knight,” she said miserably. “And breathe not a word of this to anybody.” She must have said that a little too sharply, for he said nothing during their walk back to her room. It would not do her to apologize – she would soon be a High Lady, after all – so she gave him a sympathetic smile.

            “Sleep well,” was all he said, a little gruffly, as she entered her room.

            She was weak, trembling. Something was building inside of her, and she knew she couldn’t let it out, but at any moment it might come alive and burst out of her. It was something powerful.

Something frightening.

Anna came in a few moments later to heating her bed with warm bricks wrapped in cloth. “His Lordship is very handsome, milady. You enjoyed his company, I trust?”

            Ceridwen nodded and responded in a strangely high-pitched voice. Her self-control was dissolving quickly, like the threads of a fraying rope. “Yes, Anna. He is a very noble man, and I think we will have many happy years together,” she managed.

            Anna nodded sagely. “It’s as I’ve always said, milady. True love always finds a way to bloom.” Ceridwen was quite sure she’d never said anything of the kind, but said nothing. She didn’t trust her voice.

            “Sleep well, milady,” said Anna as she blew out the candles. The coals in the braziers were dying, and the fire was as well. A warm, happy glow settled in the bedchamber. The door closed softly behind her.  

            All at once, Ceridwen’s control of the force within snapped. Tears poured from her eyes, and her mouth opened to let out a bestial cry of utter desperation and anguish. It was like a storm of emotions raged inside of her. She wanted to scream loudly enough to shatter all the windows in the castle, she wanted to cry enough to drown the lands, she wanted to rage and tear down the stone walls and die in a corner…

            Some time later her uncontrollable sobbing finally stopped. She settled into her pillow, exhausted. For a few moments all she could hear was her labored panting.

            A gust of wind rose, and the branches began scratching at her window again. Stop it! She wanted to scream at the tree. Why do you want to come in, when all I want to do is leave?

Her mother’s thrice-damned weaving, with words softer and lighter than a spider’s silken threads, had somehow trapped Ceridwen in a dungeon that was more impenetrable than one blocked with iron bars.