//------------------------------// // Ceiliúradh // Story: Courts of The Magi // by Airstream //------------------------------// There was a blizzard rolling in outside, and that meant cold. But inside the great tent of the thane, the fires burned brightly and warmly, and the shrieking winds outside were hardly noticeable when compared to the sounds of laughter, loud conversation, and the general din that came with any good party. Vino was not unfamiliar with this sort of atmosphere. Back when he was still a squire, training under Sir Ironhoof, he had been to many a feast and festival under the old knight’s roof, held in the grand hall at his estate. A far cry from the formal dinners and balls that a full grown knight was expected to attend, these feasts of brothers in arms, familiar with one another as a second family, had been full of light, laughter, and cheer. Betimes, when things looked grim or the day had been long, Vino reminisced about those bygone days, feeling strangely old when he did so. Here was an eerie reminder of those dinners, like a reflection of what he had been part of. A reflection in a flawed mirror, perhaps, but the likeness resembling enough those old feasts. Here two warriors wrestled one another for the amusement of their companions, there two younger members of the band, not yet proper fighters, pelted one another with morsels of food. A flagon of drink was raised, and several more were raised with it, in a clear toast or salute. Vino said nothing, joined in with none of it. He was not a part of this celebration, though he sat at the table along with the other warriors of the thane’s household, those he judged to probably be the less accomplished or skilled among them. There were a few young bulls he recognized from the hunt today, who nodded at him with something approaching respect, though he could still see the occasional pointed finger, followed by an appropriately hilarious comment, though he could not tell what was being said about him, seeing as he spoke no Taurish. “The insults are not as bad as you think,” Rota said, following his gaze as another group of warrior bulls seemed to laugh at his expense. “Mostly jokes about your exploits from earlier. Is it true that you ate a caribou heart? Ponies are generally squeamish about that kind of thing.” Vino flushed at the memory, though the strong beer he had been drinking certainly didn’t help matters. “It was Arctia,” he explained. “She had me convinced it was some kind of ritual, and it would be a deadly insult if I refused. I imagine she and Britha told as many Minotaurs as they could.” He locked eyes with another bull, this one older, who merely grinned, revealing teeth filed to points, and feigned carving something from an invisible beast and offering it to him. Vino gave a weak smile and returned to his supper. Rota laughed. “I see,” she said. “A joke, then, at your expense. You are, of course, entitled to play one back on her if you chose.” Vino looked at her in surprise. “I had thought that because she’s a warrior of some kind, and I’m still a slave, I just had to grin and bear it,” he replied. “Are you saying that she wasn’t just being petty?” “Minotaurs are petty creatures,” Rota said, picking up a slab of caribou meat before ripping off a small piece and chewing carefully. “If the joke in question had been meant to demean you or humiliate you, you would be entitled to demand recompense from Arctia. Even thralls have rights here. And though you are a thrall, you would have been entitled to bring your case to the thane, if you had so desired.” “What’s the catch?” Vino asked, taking a sip of his beer. Rota grinned at him, the expression startling on her hawkish face. “To simply bring the matter to the thrall would likely demonstrate that your pride was so fragile that it could be unseated by a simple joke. A better course of action would be to play a better joke. Or, if you wished to make a fight of it, you could challenge her to take back the insult. If she refused, you could press the matter and challenge her to holm-gang.” Vino thought about that. “That’s twice today I’ve heard of holm-gang,” he said. “I don’t understand. Do Minotaurs challenge one another to duels all the time?” Rota snorted. “If they challenged their rivals to holm-gang often, then they would get very little done. A holm-gang is not something to be issued likely, and it is not often called for. They are only called for in the face of open insult of the most grievous kind. If one of the thane’s huscarls said that another was not only a poor hunter, but a poor fighter besides, directly to his face, then the other would most likely call him out.” In fact, two minotaurs in the corner were apparently having a dispute at that very moment. Rota took a moment to observe, as did Vino. The two Minotaurs, both young, drew themselves to their full heights, and began to raise their voices. They were paid mind only by their neighbors, who good-naturedly began to steal food from their plates. The shouting reached a fever pitch, and then one of the Minotaurs simply reared back and slammed his head into the other one’s nose. The other Minotaur dropped like a stone, out cold. The first one proceeded to turn to one side and retch loudly before he, too, passed out. “You see?” Rota said. “More often than not, there’s a fight, and that’s the end of that. Holm-gang is a more serious undertaking, for deadly insults and grave transgressions, beyond the normal scope of things. It’s also more formal. You could challenge Arctia to holm-gang, but simply striking her in anger would result in your death.” Vino shook his head. “Minotaurs are strange,” he said. “They’re so callous, but they draw lines over the most unusual things. They aren’t exactly the most civilized of races, but they aren’t, well…” “Barbarians?” Rota asked with a wry grin. “No, they aren’t. Their ways are strange, and not what most are used to, but they have honor, of a kind, and law.” Vino sipped at his beer meditatively. “It must be even more unusual for you,” he said, “What with how restrictive Gryphon society can be. Ta’rof is probably an entirely alien concept to these Minotaurs.” Rota stiffened a little, not meeting his eyes. “It is not only an alien concept to them,” she replied. Vino frowned, looking at her. “I’d wondered why a Gryphon was this far north,” he mused. “So you’re an outlaw?” Rota’s mouth twisted into a half-cruel smirk. “An odd choice of words,” she replied. “But yes. An outlaw, in the oldest sense. In the sense that the Minotaurs still hold. I transgressed against Ta’rof, badly enough that I was stripped of my status as a Gryphon and thrust outside of the laws of my kind. I was banished. Any who encounter me, be they followers of Ta’rof, will consider it their duty to kill me on sight. And they will suffer no penalty for this.” “So you came north?” Vino asked. “This doesn’t seem like the best place for a Gryphon.” The old Gryphon nodded solemnly. “It was not my first choice,” she replied. “I had stopped in Equestria, before the war. I had hoped to start a life there, but...it was not to be. I flew to the mountains to the north of Equestria and lived there for a while, but then the war came, and I decided it would be best to move on. It took some time, but eventually I found a home among the Minotaurs. It was from them that I learned of the old gods, the gods of sky and snow and stone.” “And you decided to become a...a priestess?” Vino asked. “Shaman,” Rota replied calmly. “Priestesses are nothing more than Celestial fanatics. I speak with the gods.” Vino flushed. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to offend you.” Rota rolled her eyes. “You did not offend me,” she replied. “But should you offend another while you are here, you must stand your ground. Most of the Minotaurs will take an apology as a sign of weakness, and treat you accordingly. Learn that lesson, if you will learn nothing else. You will live more easily in that manner.” Vino nodded once, assenting to the idea. “Very well,” he said. “But how do I avoid giving offense? I’m still a thrall. I can’t exactly tell anyone who insults me to go take a long walk off of a short cliff.” Rota thought for a moment. “Try to simply ignore an insult,” she said. “By not responding, you show that you give no importance to those words, because they are false or spoken by one who has not the worth to speak them. If this fails, simply say that they are speaking a falsehood. Avoid calling them cowardly, or insulting their family. Above all, avoid calling any of the male warriors womanish or questioning their masculinity. They will likely kill you on the spot.” “But this is not so for female warriors,” another voice said. Vino felt his heart sink, and turned his head to see a familiar face, a pony with a coat of blue and mane of braided white. She grinned at him. “Learning our ways, outsider?” “Arctia,” Rota said, calmly lifting her mug to the pony. “Hail and well-met.” Arctia bowed, throwing her wings out low to the ground as she did so. “Rota,” she said. “Honored crone. Well-met, indeed. You are looking hale and hearty as ever.” “Flatterer”, Rota snorted. “I was beyond old when you were first learning to stand.” “And you shall still be old when I have gone to meet the gods,” Arctia replied. “Surely fate has become too frightened of you to claim you yet.” “I do not claim to know the will of fate,” Rota said smoothly. “Perhaps I shall meet her tonight. Perhaps a thousand nights from now, or a hundred years. It comes when it comes.” The pegasus grinned at that. “Perhaps you will scare her off again,” she said. “I think that to be the most likely.” She turned to Vino. “He needs to come with me,” she said. “It is time for him to meet his fate, as well.” “Meet my fate?” Vino asked. “I don’t like the sound of that.” Arctia looked at him strangely. “Are you dense?” she demanded. “Or are you making a bad joke?” “It sounds like you’re planning on killing me,” Vino replied. “Or did I misunderstand what you meant by Rota ‘meeting her fate’?” Rota chuffed out a quick laugh, as Arctia flushed angrily. The Gryphon set down her drink and turned to Vino. “It means something very different,” she said. “Minotaurs believe you meet fate three times in life. Once at birth, once at the beginning of your adulthood, and once at the end of it.” “You proved yourself an adult,” Arctia said. “When you you made your first kill. So you will be honored as a hunter tonight.” Vino frowned in perplexion. “I thought I was a thrall,” he said. Arctia turned to Rota. “You see?” she said. “Honor but no sense. He knows less than a child.” “Give him time,” Rota replied evenly. “He learns. Perhaps not quickly, but he learns.” The pegasus shook her head in exasperation, her braids swinging wildly. “It matters not if you are thrall, free, or the thane himself,” she explained. “This is one clan, one family. You proved yourself, so you are honored. You are still a thrall, but that means nothing here. Honestly, to think that we would simply kill you without offense.” Vino thought quickly. “You are a fierce warrior,” he said, remembering to avoid apologizing. “And I had thought that, with such ferocity, you wished to fight me. I would not wish to miss a chance to test my strength against a huscarl such as you.” Rota’s mouth fell open, and Arctia’s expression was caught somewhere between amusement and horror, as if radishes had sprouted from his ears. Even a few of the nearby minotaurs more versed in common Eqquish had stopped eating and were giving him uneasy looks. “Thrall,” Arctia said after a very long moment, “Did you wish to have sex with me?” Vino felt his knees suddenly go weak and his hooves get sweaty, as he came to the slow realization that he might have said something very foolish. He also noticed for the first time that Arctia, despite her hostile personality and numerous brands and tattoos, was actually a rather attractive mare, and close to him in age. “Um,” he said, his face flushing. “Well, that wasn’t...not that you aren’t very pretty, I mean beautiful, but…” Rota leaned over and simply held his mouth closed. “I believe this would be a good opportunity to cease speaking,” she said in a low tone. “Before you say something you truly regret.” Vino nodded meekly. “Come,” Arctia said brusquely, turning away from Vino and beginning to walk towards the center of the tent, where several other young minotaurs from the hunt were beginning to congregate. “The ceremony begins soon, and it would not do to be late.” Vino fell into step beside her. “Arctia,” he said desperately, as they wove through the crowd, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to presume anything, and if I offended you, I sincerely apologize, I don’t care if you see it as weak or not. I just want to tell you that I would never try to-” Arctia unfurled one of her wings, catching Vino in the face with it. “You are quite handsome,” she said, “Though your lack of a beard makes you look younger than you are. And you are a skilled warrior, and a passable hunter. And your Lady, powerful as she is, took you as a member of her own huscarls. So you must be loyal, and courageous. In other circumstances, I would not hesitate in laying with you.” Vino felt a blush creeping up his neck as she continued. “And who knows? The fates are strange, in their own way. There may come a time where circumstances change. But I have my duty to the thane, and you have your duties to your Lady and as a thrall. Until then, I will not lay with you, Vino Hedera. But should fate twist, as it so often does? Then…” She gave him a cheeky grin. “We shall see.” And with that, they reached the center of the tent. Arctia stepped back into the crowd, though not too far, leaving Vino alone mostly. Alone, that was, except for the dozen or so minotaurs, the surrounding crowd, and, sat once more on his throne and glowering down at Vino in a horribly familiar manner, the thane, Beraz Frosthorn. The thane, clad in fine woolen clothes, intricately embroidered, looked down at the assembled hunters. His axe, at his side but for now still wrapped in its case, was a stark reminder to Vino that should he misstep, his life could very easily end within moments, regardless of whatever protection Rota was able to afford him, seeing as he was not technically her thrall. He simply waved a hand in Arctia’s general direction, and she once more took a position at Vino’s side. “I am to translate,” she murmured to him, and said nothing more. The thane began to speak in Taurish, the sound loud even over the general noise of the crowd, gesturing to the minotaurs in front of him. Though Vino could not understand him, it was clear that the words he spoke were laden with ceremony. “The ones you see before you have earned their horns as hunters,” Arctia said in quick, low tones. “They are given the right to fight with the warriors and sit at their tables. They are given the right to take a mate and to accept a proposal to be one in return. And they are given the right to go on raids come the spring. I make to them gifts of sun-seed rings and ice-biting tools.” The thane gestured to one of the minotaurs standing before him, who proceeded to the thane’s chair and bowed his head. The thane took from a box at his side a band of gold, meant to be worn around a forearm, and gestured for the young bull’s wrist. The bull did as he was bade, extending his wrist, and the thane placed the band around his forearm, bending in to speak a few words that Vino could not hear. He repeated this process with several other minotaurs, each time speaking into their ears, and each time sending them away with not only a band of gold around their arms, but also a long knife made of good steel. If properly kept, they would likely last the newly minted warriors for many years to come. Finally, the thane turned to Vino. There was a brief pause, but after this hesitation, the thane extended his hand to Vino, beckoning him forward. Arctia followed, but only to a limit, she remained a short distance from the thane’s seat. Beraz looked at her, and with a pointy-toothed grin, said something in Taurish that Arctia didn’t bother to translate, though she did go a little pale. He turned to Vino, and his expression was emotionless. When he spoke, it was in perfect, if accented Eqquish. “Vino of Clan Hedera, protector of the Lady of the Wood and thrall. Low in rank you are, and new to our ways. But you have helped as a thrall should, to their best and without complaint. I will not give you gold or steel this night, as they are not for thralls to keep. But I will give you one honor. As of now, you are a member of my household. You shall sleep in the tents of my thralls and learn their craft. And should you give me more loyal and good service, I swear on the gods that you will be one day free.” There was a murmur from the assembled guests. Vino felt his knees go weak again. “Thane Beraz,” he said as quietly and respectfully as he could, while still being audible, “Your generosity humbles me. But this is surely too much of an honor for somepony like me?” Beraz beckoned him closer. Vino ascended the dais, until he was only two steps below the throne. The thane looked at him with the same flat expression, though up close, Vino could discern both a frightening intelligence and a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “You are right,” the thane said in a low voice. “This honor does not belong to you, boy. I have servants enough. But you are skilled with a blade, and Rota told me to keep you close. This alone would not have swayed me, but Arctia spoke highly of you, and she knows what mettle lies in the hearts of your race. Even this, I would have ignored, but...there have been signs. So be grateful. And should you fail me in your tasks, I shall hang you from the prow of my ice-ship as a warning.” Vino nodded, gulped slightly, and retreated back down the dais. The party started back up once more, and several of the other thralls stepped forward to congratulate him, some of them the thane’s own servants, When he looked up from the congratulations back to the table he had been sitting at, however, Rota was gone, as was Arctia. Britha, the hunt leader from earlier, made her way towards him through the crowd, several newly minted Taurish warriors at her back. “Arctia is tending to caribou,” Britha said, in broken Eqquish and an accent thicker than permafrost. “Rota has gone to her tent, sent word that it is not urgent.” She drew a pipe from a nearby fire, and Vino recognized the spicy scent of the herbs used in Dragon’s Kiss. “Here,” she said, swaying slightly. Vino realized that she must have been smoking already. And if the stuff in that pipe was strong enough to make a minotaur feel unsteady, it was potent stuff indeed. “Breathe in.” Before Vino could protest, Britha blew some of the smoke from the pipe directly into his face. He gasped in surprise, taking in a deep lungful of the smoke before he immediately began to cough. Britha grinned widely. “Good,” she said. “A good breath. Come! You will dine with us, hunt-mate! A long night we have ahead, and you will provide us with much sport.” Vino felt his head begin to swim, and felt strong hands guiding him to another table, pressing mugs of beer and mead into his hooves. A nagging sense of obligation tugged at him, as if he had forgotten something very important, but the smoke and noise and strange, dizzying sensation of the Kiss made it hard to think. A bowl of milky white liquid was placed in front of him. Belatedly, Vino realized he was supposed to drink it. He picked it up in both hooves, feeling suddenly carefree, and drained it dry. He spat half of it across the table, much to the enjoyment of his fellow drinkers. “What was that?” he exclaimed. “It tasted rotten!” “Airag,” Britha explained. “It is...alcohol, yes? Made from milk of caribou. Fermented. Arctia told us to make sure you grew a beard, though she would not say why. This is best way!” Vino stared at the bowl, at his cup, and at the pipes on the table. Feeling bold, he leaned over one, inhaled, and then drained his cup, tasting the honey-sweet burn of mead. “Another bowl!” he said. The table cheered, and a young bull passed him a much larger bowl of airag. Vino pressed the bowl to his lips, and remembered no more.