| by Brandon "meanbeard" Salinas
from the journal of Carlo di Cenza
It occurs to me that I have not written much regarding the
Duke's daughter, Eleonora du Bellenesse. While she was born long before I
entered the Duke's service, and has been the source of much consternation
for the entirety of the Duke's household, her life did not intersect much
with my own until recently. As long as I have known her, she has been
nothing more than the rebellious, morose daughter of my Knight's lord. I
never thought more of her than I did any other spoiled girl of noble birth.
I certainly had no idea the thoughts she entertained within her tortured
mind. Nor did I ever suspect the plans she had for the future of the
kingdom.
This story really begins five years ago, when Eleonora was
only thirteen years of age. The King and the Duke were on much better terms
then. The Duke led the King's army to a great victory in Roulea a few years
prior. It was this victory that paved the road for future incursions into
that weakened empire, and eventually forced it to succumb to our King's
banner. No lord was more favored by our King than the Duke of Bellenesse.
So, when King Varicci was informed of Eleonora's impending
birthday, he invited the Duke, his daughter, and all of the Duke's house to
a tournament at Lord Marden's estate. Lord Marden was a loyal retainer to
the King and had hosted many tournaments in the King's honor. The King could
have hosted the tournament himself, but Lord Marden's tourney grounds were
far more impressive than any other in the land, including the Royal grounds
themselves.
Eleonora was thrilled. She had never been to a tournament,
but she had listened to Sir Bellas' many grand stories over the years, and
consequently possessed an overly idealized view of the chivalry and majesty
of those events. To think that she had finally been given the opportunity to
attend such a tournament - one held in her own honor, no less - filled her
with an excitement I had not witnessed before in the young girl.
She spent the entirety of the trip pestering our company
for details about the various knights and warhorses she was to see. She
wanted to know all of their names and histories so she could make an
informed choice about which knights to cheer and which to jeer. Even at that
age, she believed strongly in a lady's duty to be fair and just to her
subjects. A notion, I realize now, that was not widely shared amongst the
nobility of that time.
Her constant questions greatly irritated many of the
Knights in our caravan, but Sir Bellas never grew tired of the young girl's
interrogations. He answered her every question, even quizzing her from time
to time on the stories and histories he had shared with her. I must say, I
ignored most of their talk. The personal politics of the lowly Knights of
the land have never interested me. But I was constantly aware of the girl's
presence, which seemed to fill Sir Bellas with so much joy and peace. To
this day, she is still the only one who can ease his war-torn soul. And for
that, if for no other of her many fine qualities, I do love her.
When we arrived at Lord Marden's estate, the girl could
not contain her excitement. The tourney knights had first arrived three days
prior, and more arrived by the hour. There were hundreds of knights,
resplendent in their gleaming plate and chain, their horses bearing the
standards of their houses. They were tended to by hundreds more squires like
myself, polishing armor and oiling weapons, erecting tents and cooking
meals. The knights busied themselves with preparations for the tournament.
At first glance, the grounds surrounding the tourney tent looked very much
like a battlefield. Knights bearing the standards of Bull, Swan, Bear,
Badger and countless other beasts jousted and parried on any piece of land
they could find. Their wooden swords beat against shield and armor and
created a cacophony not unlike a hailstorm beneath a steel roof.
Eleonora bounced in her seat, pointing to the Knights
whose armor and standards she recognized from Sir Bellas' stories. Everyone
in our caravan, even those who had long grown annoyed with the girl's
constant prattle, beamed at her obvious joy. After all, this entire
tournament was for her. It was good to see that it had the effect on her we
had all hoped it would.
As we rode to the edge of the Knights' camp, one of them
recognized our caravan. He stopped his skirmish and shouted as loud as he
could, "The Lady of the Tourney! Eleonora du Bellenesse! The Lady of the
Tourney! Eleonora du Bellenesse!"
As he shouted, the other Knights stopped their own mock
battles, removed their helms, and took up the chant. In a matter of moments,
hundreds of voices were shouting the young girl's name, pumping their fists
in the air and waving their swords.
The girl was stunned. She sat in her seat, completely
drained of her earlier excitement. Her face was empty of color. Her eyes
were wide and glistened with tears. Her father placed a hand on her shoulder
and whispered something to her, a smile on his face. She looked up at him
and nodded. Then she slowly urged her horse forward, and raised her hand to
the crowd.
The Knights erupted in a frenzy of raucous applause. The
roar of that crowd was overwhelming - hundreds of warriors cheering the
young lady of my house, shouting her name and hailing her beauty. Their
display of pride and loyalty brought tears to us all.
The girl wept. She smiled. She shook. She laughed. She was
a torrent of wildly shifting emotions. And none of us had ever been so happy
to witness another's joy as we were right then.
The following days were the most thrilling of Eleonora's
young life. She watched joust after joust, fight after fight. She witnessed
the aged Sir Borlac defeat the young champion of the King's own army. She
saw the savage weapons of the Gharu'ndim pitted against the superior steel
of Viamont. She gazed upon the fearsome black warhorses of Milantos, who
tower above all others. There was even a Silveran warrior, his long white
hair and tattooed body - nearly naked, I might add - the talk of the many
ladies in attendance. Eleonora had never seen such wonders. And she would
never forget them.
During the tournament, Eleonora made fast friends with
Lord Marden's own son, Darren. They spent many hours talking and laughing,
debating the skills of each knight over the others. It was clear that the
two of them were quite taken with one another, a turn of events which
greatly pleased our Duke. The young Lord Marden was handsome, noble, and
heir to one of the greatest houses in the land. He would have proved a fine
husband to our lady had their romance been allowed to flourish.
I have had much cause to wonder lately, were I given the
opportunity to step back through time, would I have stopped their romance
before it had the chance to begin? If I had known what tragedies lay hidden
in the future, would I have separated the young lady from the lovestruck
lord?
Perhaps our lives would be easier now. Perhaps this
damnable war would not be upon us. If we had just kept the lady away from
that boy...
Bah! There is no sense in pondering such thoughts now. The
events of the past must remain in the past, despite the present they have
shaped. Our course is set. There is nothing left to do but fight.
The King and his two sons arrived on the fourth day of the
tournament. Their arrival was greatly anticipated by all, and not simply
because they were the ruling house of our kingdom. Prince Varicci II, the
elder of the two princes, was highly regarded as a swordsman. He had
participated in a great many battles and had emerged victorious in all of
them. He, above all others, was the reason many of the tourney spectators
had traveled such great distances. Much of the talk of the past few days had
centered around the show the prince was sure to provide once he arrived. All
of the knights - even my Sir Bellas - longed to meet the young man in
battle. All of them wished to pit themselves against such a highly regarded
warrior.
Unfortunately for us all, Prince Varicci II was unable to
fight in the tourney. The young man's arm was broken. He had apparently
fallen from his horse during an ill-fated hunting excursion six days prior.
He could barely move when he arrived at the tourney, numb as he was from the
pain-mitigating herbs and philtres his healers had doubtlessly administered.
We were lucky to have the man in attendance at all; there was no hope that
he would meet our knights on the tourney field.
The younger son, however, was in perfect health. And
unfortunately for us, he wished to take his brother's place in the
tournament.
Prince Renlen was an ill-tempered, hateful young man. At
fifteen years of age, he was rumored to have killed four men already. All of
them in duels that were supposed to have been conducted with blunted
sparring weapons. It was widely rumored that he forced his trainers to use
blunted weapons while he himself wielded sharp, poisoned blades. It was said
that he liked to kill. And he especially liked those deaths to be as
painful as possible.
So when he caught sight of the lady Eleonora and made his
intentions towards her as clear as he could, we all fell into a deep dread.
Like Darren, Prince Renlen refused to leave Eleonora's
side. But unlike Darren, his presence was not at all welcomed by the lady.
She had heard the same stories about the prince we all had, and she detested
the young man. Her distaste for him was obvious, but still the prince
persisted in his pursuit. Darren played the good noble and stayed out of the
prince's way, but it was obvious to all of us the pain that Renlen's
attentions caused him. He became increasingly morose as the tournament
progressed, and eventually left the lady's side altogether.
Perhaps he believed that the lady was taken with Prince
Renlen. Many of us, in our youth, are prone to such mistaken, self-defeating
views of the world. Perhaps he believed that Eleonora would submit to the
prince's advances and become the new princess of Viamont. I suppose he came
to believe that the only way to win her heart was to best the fiendish
prince in combat and win the tournament.
I wish I had had the foresight to take the young boy aside
and counsel him in the ways of love. The lady's affection for the young lord
- and not for the prince - was obvious to all but Darren. If he had only
seen what we could see, perhaps he would have calmly endured the prince's
unwanted advances, resuming his place by the lady's side once the tournament
was over. If only that poor, doomed boy had not been so blind.
But as I said before, the past cannot be changed. There is
no sense dwelling on such thoughts.
After hundreds of battles and only a few injuries, the
final day of the tournament arrived. When the final battle reached its
thrilling end, King Varicci announced that Prince Renlen would take part in
a duel with any man who wished to prove his mettle against a Prince of
Viamont.
The prince walked out to the center of the tourney pit and
bowed to the spectators. He wore a royal cape - the Bull of Viamont
emblazoned on its back - over a full suit of polished Alduressa armor. A
page rushed in from the spectator stands. He carried a large purple pillow,
atop which rested a massive wooden sword. Renlen took up the weapon and held
it aloft. The crowd gasped in admiration and wonder. This was no mere
sparring weapon. This was a sword crafted of Silveran oak, infused with the
magics of the north. Strands of diamond-lace weaved about the blade of the
weapon, granting it a strength equal to - and some say greater than - the
finest Viamontian steel.
Again, the King offered his challenge, "Will any man here
dare to meet my son in single combat?" But of course, no one responded. No
right-thinking man would willingly walk into a duel with that depraved boy.
He had not one spark of the nobility that graced his elder brother. Besides,
no one could forget the rumors of the boy's poisoned swords.
The King, however, was unfazed. He had anticipated our
reluctance. He had brought one warrior from each of the conquered realms of
Roulea, Aluvia, and Gharu'n. They entered the grounds and declared their
loyalty to the King. And one by one, they fought the prince and met their
defeat at the end of his sword.
Prince Renlen did not kill his opponents. He could not
have poisoned his blade anyhow, for its edges were blunted. But he did best
those three men. It was clear to us all, however, that his combatants did
not fight with the vigor of which they were capable. They put on a fairly
entertaining show, but in the end they fell to the prince as they were no
doubt commanded to.
When the prince was done with them, he raised his sword to
the applause of all assembled. He dedicated his victories to the lady
Eleonora, who made no attempt to hide her disgust for the young man.
The tournament was nearly at an end. The prince was on the
verge of leaving the grounds when a voice called out from Lord Marden's box,
"Good show, Prince Renlen. You have bested the foreign warriors which we
have already conquered. But how will you fare against Viamontian steel?"
A deathly silence fell upon the tent. All eyes turned to
the Lord's box. Lord Marden was white with fear as he looked at his son.
Lord Darren was cloaked with a robe bearing the Swan of his house. He undid
the robe's tie and let it slip to the ground, revealing a magnificent suit
of gleaming Alduressa armor.
Darren opened the box's door and stepped into the dueling
pit.
"Nice armor," the young prince called. "I'll try not to
bang it up too badly."
Darren turned and pulled his own Silveran sword from his
father's box. Lord Marden was frozen in shock. He could do nothing but gape.
"I'd worry about my own skin, if I were you," Darren replied.
Eleonora tried to rise to her feet, but her father stopped
her. She looked on the verge of tears. It was obvious she wanted to stop
this horrible charade, but her father whispered something in her ear that
stopped her mouth. What did he say, I wonder? Most likely, he told her that
stopping the tournament would harm Lord Darren's reputation more than any
defeat in combat. Most likely, the Duke assumed that the worst possible
outcome was a bruised head and a wounded pride. Apparently, the Duke had not
heard the same rumors we had.
Darren strode to the center of the pit. He raised his
oaken sword, holding it in both hands. He bowed his forehead against the
flat edge of the blade. Renlen did the same. The two boys turned in
Eleonora's direction and bowed their heads again. Then Darren spoke, "I
dedicate this victory to the lady Eleonora. May her beauty live on forever."
Renlen merely smirked.
The two boys turned away from one another, took five
strides, then turned back.
They attacked in a fury.
The duels heretofore seen in the tournament had followed
the traditional rules of tournaments from ages past. They were more stylish
than forceful, more concerned with the show than the victory. But this fight
was different. Love was in these boys' hearts, and blood would be shed.
Their swords smashed against one another, against each
other's armor. They kicked and punched and screamed and cursed. At one
point, Renlen knocked Darren's sword to the ground. But Darren just grabbed
the blade of Renlen's sword with a gauntleted hand and smashed his forehead
into the prince's face. The prince's nose shattered and blood exploded from
his ruined visage. Darren tossed the sword to the side and kicked Renlen in
the chest, knocking him to his back.
The prince scrambled to his feet and turned to meet his
attacker. The two boys grappled with one another and wrestled each other to
the ground. They punched and bit and ripped at each other's hair.
Renlen was younger than Darren, but he was stronger. He
pinned the boy to the ground and straddled him. He punched Darren in the
face several times, shattering Darren's nose and teeth. Darren maneuvered
his arms underneath Renlen's crotch and lifted with all his might, tossing
the prince to the ground.
Both boys scrambled for their swords. Renlen reached his
first.
He wheeled about and ran towards Darren as the young lord
crawled to his own fallen weapon. Renlen screamed and leapt at the prone
lord. He landed on Darren, his boot crashing into the small of Darren's
back. The prince raised his sword high with both hands.
Eleonora let out a strangled cry. "No!"
Renlen sank the point of his blade into Darren's back. The
Silveran wood cut through Darren's armor and severed his spine. Darren
screamed, his cry shattering our ears. He grabbed handfuls of earth and
tried to drag himself forward, but his fading strength was unable to do
aught but claw. Renlen leaned forward on the hilt of his sword and wrenched
it round, like a cook stirring his stew. Darren screeched and moaned. The
crowd merely watched, sickened to silence.
Finally, after moments that felt like hours, Darren
breathed his last breath. His body went slack, and his face rested in the
dirt.
The crowd was silent. I looked around me at hundreds of
faces contorted in shock and horror. Many wept.
Lord Marden merely hung his head. His face was red - with
grief, anger, or shame; I do not know which. But he refused to look at his
son's body. He merely stared at the floor at his feet.
Renlen released the sword, which remained pinned into
Darren's back, and looked up at Eleonora. He smiled and bowed to the lady of
the tournament. "I dedicate this victory to the lady Eleonora. May her
beauty live on forever."
Then he pulled his sword from Darren's back, lifted it on
high, and plunged it into the young lord's skull. The crowd gasped. Women
shrieked.
"Renlen!" the King shouted. His face was purple with rage.
The veins in his neck strained against his flesh. But Renlen did not even
acknowledge him. He merely stared down at his prey, a satisfied smile on his
face.
Eleonora's resolve cracked. She burst into a fit of
wailing. She clung to her father and sobbed into his chest.
I was standing next to Sir Bellas when I saw something
that filled my heart with terror. Sir Bellas placed his hand on the hilt of
his sword. He exchanged glances with the Duke's other Knights. Soon, all of
them had their hands on their own sword hilts. The other squires and I
stepped away from our knights, knowing full well what was about to happen.
Sir Bellas took a step forward, but a cacophony from
outside the tent stayed his assault. The entrance to the tent was ripped
open. The Royal Guard poured into the pit, forming a circle around the
prince. The King made his way to his Knights, followed by the elder prince.
The Royal Guard encircled the King and his sons and escorted them out of the
pit, barely averting a civil war.
You can imagine the tone of the caravan home. No one
spoke. The young lady remained enclosed in her carriage the whole journey.
From time to time, she wailed and wept. But mostly she was silent. And those
silences were more terrifying and heartbreaking than her cries.
The next five years were quiet ones for Eleonora. She
spent most of her time reading or riding alone. She no longer teased the
servants' children. She no longer talked the cooks into playing games with
her when they should have been preparing the Duke's supper. She became the
girl that I think of when someone mentions her name to me now. Quiet,
lonely, and distant.
To think of the thoughts that raged in her head. To think
of what she was reading. To think of that great secret Sir Bellas kept from
me. I can scarcely believe such world-shaking events were unfolding right
before me, and all without anyone in the house suspecting a thing.
part 2
From Turbine's
Throne of Destiny site. |