Alkara had visited taverns, public houses, inns. These all fit neatly within what Tharan had described. So of course she was prepared for the dining “establishment.”
But the Banquet House defied those expectations. It flirted with something between dining and a perpetual party.
Colored glass and delightful lanterns confront any visitors. Once they’ve contended with the line, that is. A file of elves forms a perimeter for a cordoned picnic-like area. More elves sit there, enjoying food from large platters. No pub has lines. Who would wait when you could go to a different tavern?
Alkara’s mouth parts in a small gap. She wants to ask something, but nothing seems adequate. Their carriage pulls into a small alleyway behind the building. A few eyes perk up at the sight. Even with the one-way shades drawn the paladins give them away.
The guards screen the alleyway for Tharan and Alkara to exit. Are they coming in? The idea sits uneasy in Alkara’s head. Nine elves, Alkara, and a Panther all sitting at a long table…
But the paladins stay in position near the end of the alleyway, save for one. Alkara breathes a sigh of relief. She squats next to Guen to stroke her fur. “Alright girl, you behave. Play nice with the paladins, okay?”
The cat accepts the head pats with an air of unamused reluctance. She can’t be thrilled at the prospect of staying outside. Guen eyes Tharan and, after receiving a single nod from him, licks Alkara’s face with a tongue that grips like the barbs on a Flanged Armored Octopus. The panther leaps back into the carriage and circles twice before finding a palatable resting spot.
Alkara stands with an awkward sweep of her hem to keep it out of the alley dirt. These clothes fulfill a role somewhere between Alkara’s good clothes and truly fancy garb. To her dismay the skirts of it fall to her ankles. But at least the upper portion fits with her usual attire. Snug, supple sleeves and tunic.
When she’d dressed at Tharan’s she had included her full kit. Dorië’s alarm at her belt dagger and bow told her everything she needed about what was expected. So she stowed them with her quiver and backpack and left with an approving, although suspicious, nod from the attendant.
Can’t win with this guy.
Now her gear sits hidden in the carriage. Just under where Guen had lain down. Everything aside from her dagger, of course. She won’t go without some form of weapon. Still, being so underequipped jars her. Anxiety swirls in her chest as she resists twitching her hand toward her lone source of protection.
She is, in a word: Vulnerable.
She hates it.
And of course the clothes pile onto the feeling. But at least they aren’t Doësin. No, Tharan confirmed he ordered a dress from the Teäsin, less constrictive and formal.
The neckline, low-cut compared to Doësin dress, displays her scars along with her necklace. Teäsin are supposed to cavort at all hours, but this particular dress would restrict such activity. Whoever sewed it hadn’t made it with access in mind. The skirts fall thick, but light. And many ties secure the tunic in place.
Tharan takes Alkara’s hand, peering into her eyes and cutting off her musings about the clothes.
“Shall we enter?” He asks, scanning her face. “Are you well? You look a little peaked.”
Alkara crinkles her brow. “I thought we were waiting for Dorië to summon us when everything is ready.”
An amused smile accents Tharan’s nod. “He has just given word. Did you not notice that I left to prepare the tea?”
Alkara swallows and looks past Tharan to the open door. Dorië stands beyond the threshold, attentive and patient. Alkara releases the slow breath kept hostage in her chest. “I guess not. Maybe I’m more nervous than I thought.” She nibbles her bottom lip. “At least the hard part is first, right?” Alkara offers a weak smile. “Just gotta keep from making a face when you offer the tea.”
Tharan squeezes her hand, a small bump to accompany her pounding heart. “I suppose that would depend on the face you intend to make. One of joy is preferable to disgust.” Alkara opens her mouth to protest but Tharan continues. “We have been assured that this tea will be to your liking.”
Alkara stifles a laugh but plays out rolling her eyes. “Yeah, how many times have I heard that.” She flicks a finger out from a fist, “Once,” another finger, “twice,” a third, “Three times?”
Tharan nods along with a bemused smile. “Perhaps you are overestimating the total.”
She shakes her head with closed eyes. “I’ve tried a different tea with every meal and they’re all disg– unlikeable.” Dorië could hear, and while the teas brought her close to vomiting, some had been prepared by the attendant. Alkara has enough awareness not to complain to too great an extent.
She breathes in again, letting the air out with a steady focus to remind herself of the occasion and importance of decorum. With a finality to set everything in motion she nods. “But I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
Tharan appraises her once more but offers an arm. Together they sweep into the building.
As they wend their way from the alley to the tavern’s main room, no rising din of conversation meets them. A chill of gooseflesh runs across the back of Alkara’s neck. Where is the dull roar? The sloshing of ale and slurred speech of the half-drunk? Public houses are loud. This… is something else.
Alkara and Tharan walk into the dining hall to a sea of eyes. Instead of the anonymity that should have been afforded by a dining hall, the assembled Doësin stare with expectation.
Even the tables greet her with strangeness. High-backed benches cordon each from the others, and along a central hall many curtains prepare to hide their occupants once the spectacle is over.
The air in Alkara’s chest siezes up. Too late she realizes that, with Tharan having entered to prepare the tea, expectations must be high. Alkara keeps her eyes off of the other patrons, not wanting to see the reactions to who Tharan will be offering tea.
They weave through the room toward a well-dressed table. Try as she might, Alkara can’t keep from looking at the seated diners as she moves past. Unabashed adoration for Tharan freezes into a calculating reserve as she follows. Some hardened faces bear disdain before wrapping themselves in a cloak of neutrality.
Why am I doing this?
The people here hate her. Before Alkara had found refuge in Tharan’s home she’d found polite contempt from the Doësin. Especially when she had searched for the mythril arrows. Uncle Iro had warned her that courting Tharan would make her the target of their malice, and here she is. Just asking for someone to shoot her in the back. Alkara finds herself staring at Tharan’s ankles to follow, rather than meet the angry and dismissive expressions at the tables.
This is worse than Three Rivers. At least I can fight the monsters attacking me. I can’t defend against this. This backroom, political fighting. These elves who say flowery things that smell like a rose but bite like its thorns. They pretend they’re your friend and then stab you in the back. They–
“Alkara?” Tharan’s voice warbles at her from afar.
Alkara blinks at the table. Apparently they’d arrived. But the silk cloth shimmers in her vision. Stoneware and other crockery lay on top, but she can’t figure out what it is. She sucks in air but it’s not enough. Has this tunic always been so tight?
“Alkara,” Tharan repeats. This time much closer. “I’m here, stay with me.”
Alkara turns to him, eyes wide. Her sense of self dashes from her body and sits somewhere just behind and above her shoulder. She tugs at it, trying to reunite the two. But that floating version of her steals away.
What is this feeling?
Alkara opens her mouth but no words come to her. How did she get here? A lonesome tear rolls down her cheek.
Tharan caresses her cheek, subtly swiping the tear from it. “It’s alright. I am with you. Please be here with me.”
Fear dashes through her chest that this is some sort of nightmare before the words echo through Alkara’s memory. Arrowheads and fletchings. Tharan teaching her until he’d gone quiet, brooding.
“Tharan? What’s wrong?”
He snaps from whatever reverie he’d been indulging. “I beg your pardon. It was nothing.” His strained smile tells Alkara everything she needs to know.
Alkara rests her hand on his cheek. “It didn’t look like nothing.”
A few moments pass before he cups her hand with his own. Still, he looks at her with guarded eyes.
“You don’t have to tell me. Not if you don’t want to. But I’m here. At least… be here with me?”
A purple tinge colors Tharan’s cheeks. He looks down but nods. “Yes. I will be here with you. Thank you, Alkara.”
Alkara lets out a small sigh and smiles. “Okay, now come tell me how I did with this Catching Hook.” She narrows her eyes and frowns, “And don’t laugh.”
He had laughed.
The world solidifies once more. Alkara fit firmly back into her own mind. She nods and cups Tharan’s hand with her own. “Yes.” A second tear marks her other cheek. “I will be here with you.” A colorless smile grips her.
Tharan doesn’t smile. Or sigh. Or give much indication of anything. But a subtle change in his expression reveals relief.
Am I getting better at reading him?
Tharan turns to the table. An ornate, stonework tea pot demands attention in the center of the table. The rough-hewn, chipped edges of flowing, old Glöhasis script bear a lineage from centuries before. Perhaps millennia. A two-handled teacup of immaculate porcelain flanks the pot. The designs conflict with that on the stone pot. Perhaps the original cup had been lost?
Tharan picks up one cup, and though designs cover both, this one holds imagery of landscapes and duality. “As a child of Doë,” Tharan begins with a loud, resonant baritone. Everyone in the room would have heard, yet somehow not loud enough to make Alkara wince at the volume. “It is my honor, duty, and privilege to find a partner to whom I would dedicate myself for life. With whom I would expand our community. And endeavor to return six-fold the blessings I have received.” He extends the tea cup with both hands. “Will you, Alkara Aberrant-Bane, grant me the honor of considering my partnership?”
Alkara reaches for the cup, trying to quash the slight tremor that had wormed its way into her hands. A palpable silence pushes in on her. If Guen yowled outside she’d likely hear it. She takes the teacup, forgetting to smile. “I will.” To her dismay, the tremor in her hands had hitched a ride on her voice.
Alkara sips at the tea, careful to take some but not so much she’d need to spit it out. A pleasant burst of enjoyment spreads across her face. The tea isn’t terrible! It might actually be good, but Alkara concentrates so hard on not making a fool of herself that she doesn’t really taste it.
Alkara’s cheeks flare. Her lack of subtlety likely adding more for the Doësin to grumble about. She tilts her chin down and grins at Tharan.
He watches, a tiny smile fit to his face, with an impenetrable mask. Something there hints that he can’t wait to ask about the tea.
Someone on the second floor claps. A Doësin woman, perhaps of Tharan’s age, stands next to an older, disapproving woman. Their braids match in style. Perhaps mother and daughter. The younger woman nods with a polite smile. “Venáchti ne mehárjes!” She cries.
Blessings and congratulations? Seems a risky thing considering the current climate…
Polite applause scatters through the room. A few more calls of congratulations join the first. Alkara wonders at the woman but Tharan pulls her focus back to him when he takes the teacup from her.
He bows his head over it and whispers in Glöhasis. Alkara makes out Doë, and a few other terms. The words harken to the old tongue. Finished, Tharan sips from the cup and sets it down.
He smiles at Alkara and takes her hand once more. After leading her to the stairs, Tharan exchanges a few words with Dorië before they ascend.
That same woman who first clapped greets them at the top of the stairs. She wears robes of grey and blue which sweep through the gradient of both. Chiseled cheeks form sharp angles to lead toward her silver eyes. Plum and gold blush highlights the ridges further. Earcuffs, half platinum, half a sheer, translucent topaz, hide her lobes. Dark blue sleeves extend to her middle fingers, covering most of the palm.
She offers a low bow to Tharan. “Congratulations, Cimäudi Clag. May the blessings of Doë and the Chord ring true for you.” She rises from the bow and appraises Alkara with not an unkind look. The expression brews into a warm smile. “So this is the woman who makes our Cimäudi Clag laugh.”
“Mistress Yluna Eamon-ek-Soji,” Tharan cuts in before Alkara sorts out her thoughts enough to respond. “May I present Alkara Aberrant-Bane of Three Rivers. Mistress Aberrant-Bane, this is Yluna, a gifted engineer who serves our blessed city.”
Alkara starts, “You’re Yluna?”
“You’ve heard of me.” Yluna’s smile widens until it graces her eyes as well. “This puts me at a disadvantage as I’ve no notion of what you’ve learned. I would urge you not to speak so informally within earshot of my mother.” She turns to Tharan. “Her displeasure could be made into a play of its own.”
Tharan nods, “Yes, our perspectives rarely align.” He peers around the dining area. “Would that we could resolve on a common note. Or even a harmonious one.”
“She is not one to allow civility to get in the way of an argument.” Yluna nods back at the older woman, who seems to condemn the very air around her with a look. “Cimaudi Clag, would you honor me by attending a dinner? I should like to acquaint myself with your intended.”
Tharan grants one sidelong appraising look toward Alkara. “The Aberrant-Bane’s visits are irregular. Her duties in Three Rivers make long-term plans difficult. However, have your valet send word to Dorië and we shall endeavor to attend.”
Yluna bows again, “You honor me.” As she rises she looks one more time at Alkara, and then returns to her table.
Tharan leads Alkara toward a separate table while the call of Yluna’s keeps tickling her attention. But she restrains herself so as not to stare, instead only sneaking short glances.
A small vase filled with Alkara’s favorite red and yellow primroses marks their table. A blue silk tablecloth covers the remainder of it. A clay carafe with similar designs as their teapot, though without the signs of age, sits in the middle of the table. Small plates with intricate green and yellow designs mirror each other in front of the benches.
Alkara scoots into the middle of one of those odd benches and glances at the varied silverware with a mixture of trepidation and recognition. Wide spoons, shallow spoons, some sort of plier spoon fork hybrid all judge her from the right of the plate. Forks with two tines and others with splayed tines scorn her from the other
Why would you need a dozen little forks when your hands work?
She groans. At least she knows what to do with the crystal goblet.
Tharan chuckles, pulling Alkara away from scouring her memory about each of the little utensils.
She looks up with a sheepish smile, “What?”
“You need not worry over which is which.” Tharan undoes the frog closure on their curtain tieback, and the table envelops them in privacy. “I do need to apologize, however. I would enjoy attending Yluna’s dinner with your presence, but if you wish it, I will cancel the arrangement.”
Alkara drops the bladed fork she’d been inspecting. “Oh, no, please don’t.” She picks up the fork-knife and stares down at what could only be a complete set of utensils, as though this one’s spot had vanished. “It’s just, when I’m here is so unpredictable.” She shrugs. “I think it would be nice to have dinner with her… but maybe not her mother.”
Tharan’s smile fades to a shadow of its former fire, now only an ember. “I suspect her mother would not be invited. I will verify prior to accepting any invitation.”
Alkara puts the fork-knife down between a pair of identical three-tined forks. No discernible difference separates them. Why eating requires two of the same fork escapes Alkara’s understanding. “How do you know her?” She leans to catch a glimpse through the curtains, but the enclosure remains impenetrable. “Yluna’s mother, I mean.”
Tharan pours water into Alkara’s goblet from the carafe. “She is one of the Doësin Councilors. An honored position tasked with guiding our clan in difficult matters. As Cimaudi Clag, I witness and advise on their proceedings, but do not hold the weight of any voting power.” He stops to pour himself water as well. “We often disagree upon the proper course for our people. She is quite passionate and deigns not compromise. She has been compared to an anvil upon which lesser metals break.”
“Yeah, I don’t think I want her at the dinner.” Alkara joins Tharan in a short chuckle. She furrows her brow. “It’s strange. Wouldn’t a council mean you have to compromise? That’s kind the point, right? So no one gets pushed around?”
Tharan sinks into a pensive stare. “It is, and it does. However, there are always ideals which one will not surrender.” He waves his hand. “I would prefer we discuss other matters, rather than any unpleasantries.” Tharan peaks his eyebrows and broadens his smile. “I gather from your expression that you enjoyed the tea.”
Alkara tilts her head with an uncommitted smile. “I mean, I think maybe? I want to try it again before I decide for sure. But it was so much better than any of the other teas I’ve tried.”
That smile affixes itself to Tharan as though spread with hoof glue. “Excellent. Dorië shall have the name of the strain and its preparation. I am glad you wish to try it again, as a pot for will be delivered for the tea course.”
Alkara blanches. “The… tea course?”
“Yes, that will be our first. I believe it will arrive presently.” Tharan’s smile warms into something akin to a blazing inferno. “There are six course, not counting the Tea Course or the Idirlinn. Others include those in the count for eight total.”
Suddenly the number of different utensils strikes Alkara as portentous. “Eight?” The word comes out as a weak gasp within the enclosed space.
So much food. How do they stay fit?
“This is an opportunity to learn some of our customs. Each utensil has its proper use, and once mastered provide efficiency and control.”
Alkara sighs but nods after a moment. The display of silverware still elude her, but at least with the seclusion offered by the curtain whatever embarrassment she finds won’t settle in to dine with her. She picks up the odd fork-spoon plier. “Okay, so what about this one?”