Statuette

The gates of the Keep are fully raised. Delegates, traders, commonfolk, and nobility pass in and out those gates as they please. The Keep clearly began its life as a fortification, but over time its principal use is as the residence of the royal family and their court. This secondary use, as the residence of several mages, bound to the court and transient alike, makes the Keep far more akin to a palace than its original purpose.

As they enter the Keep gates, however, the utility of its fortified origins become immediately apparent. The outer courts surround an inner wall, wherein an inner court housed the Keep itself. The gates of the inner wall are likewise open, but less invitingly so. Only two of the five stand open, and those two manned by fully armored guards. Delegates and nobles are still able to pass unharried, but more than one spare a nervous glance at the burly figures that impassively flank their entrance and exit. It appears that the delegates find the Keep's measures to be more cautious than usual. The prince's accident must have caused more of an upset than Osthryn realises.

"More delegates coming in from the outside than I expected," Silovar comments. "Most of the court mages live within the Keep's walls, I thought I would be one of the few to enter from outside when I came to fetch you. Seems the invitation stretched a bit broader."

"Do you live in the keep?" Osthryn asks Silovar, realising that while he often easily found her wherever she was, she had no idea where he slept. If he slept at all. She surveys the courtyard as the approach the inner wall, noting that along with the sheer volume of delegates, the pomp with which they were dressed was unmistakable. Osthryn was afraid that she might have appeared over-dressed with a tailored bodice and two sets of bronze and embroidered overskirts. Luckily not, it seems.

"Oh, yes I do, like any good court mage does. A court mage must be close at hand for his majesty!"

"And yet, you spend all your time at the Library," Osthryn prods, a wry twist at the corner of her mouth as she teases him.

Silovar slaps his hand over his heart in mock offense, "You wound me! It is a court mage's responsibility to remain enlightened. Where better than the Library? And for what better reason than the intriguing librarians there?"

"You underestimate yourself."

"Hmm."

Their banter is cut short as they too nod their heads in brief greeting to the stoic guards. The inner courtyard is bustling with energy. Osthryn keeps her hold on the crook of Silovar’s elbow. She is not unused to large groups of people, but the concentration of mages and scribes is far more than even the Library provides. She searches the stream of entering delegates for Oswald. He did tell them that he would be arriving earlier than they, but he is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had already entered the Keep itself.

“Remember now," Silovar whispers as they pass into the Keep proper, “our gloves help us when we touch the silver, not when we use it. Sip, and sip gingerly."

Silovar explained at length the day before about how at every meeting, whether the king was present or not, it was required of all present to drink from what was provided. This was to ensure, in case of a poisoning or other misfortune, that you were blameless. For, if you refused to drink anything given to you in company, it would put you in suspicion of being the poisoner yourself.

Unfortunately, all drinking vessels and crockery are typically silver. Fortunately, on the other hand, the ascerbic properties of the silver vessels do not transfer to their contents. Their hands are protected by the customary gloves they wear, so when they do drink, they need to drink quickly and with small sips. Silovar had Osthryn practice well into the afternoon the day before. If his goading did not inspire a ghostly level of elegance, the sting of the silver on her lips at each mistake did.

Her thoughts distract her, and before she realises it, they arrive at the first set of statuettes. She copies Silovar at each one, and is grateful to see that if she misses his cue, there are several other delegates around her whom she can copy instead.

The final salute at the engraving of the twin suns over the door to the meeting hall is a point of pride for Osthryn. Not that it was a particularly difficult step, it was just that she required no cue to remember to do it.

They entered the meeting-hall, which is mostly occupied by an outlandishly long table. Each setting is already placed with a silver goblet. Osthryn instinctively folds her hands over front her skirt as she enters, making herself appear as small as possible. She is not keen to accidentally bump or touch any silver objects today, however well her gloves fit.

Her eyes meet Oswald's, the latter standing in a little circle of similarly-aged mages and scribes at the far end of the table. The grouping of grey hair, wrinkles, and complaints were not the only idiosyncratic sight in this room. The moment that the formality of the "Pilgrimage of Statuettes" had concluded, the court mages became a beast unto their own.

Several groups chatter loudly among themselves in speculation of the prince's condition, still others theorise about the validity of the accused mages' claims and the connections they could have to the missing wyverns. One aspect of all these conversations hold true: that the subject, however important or serious, does not discourage an attitude of petty gossip.

Silovar's hand abruptly lands on the small of her back, pulling her closer into himself. Osthryn looked up just in time to see the focus of his attention. A stocky, middle-aged mage with thick, cropped brown hair rapidly approaches them, a congenial smile softening the severeness of his square jawline.

Osthryn immediately recognises the man as Frederick, one of her usuals at the library. He is also one of the more difficult mages she had answered queries for. He does not seem recognize her, however, as his eyes hardly passed over her in their intent focus on Silovar. Osthryn smiles inwardly -- at least he appears to be a snob both within and without the Library. Silovar does not release his grip around her waist.

"Good Silovar! How fares the evening?" Frederick bows.

Silovar inclines his head, "As well as the topic should allow, I am not too fixed in my expectation of it."

"What of it, do you say? I have not yet seen that your magic has wavered at any point, you are marvellously consistent in your power."

Silovar shrugs, "Practice, more like. What do you say of it, have you experienced any 'shutdowns' as those mages call it?"

Frederick ignores Silovar's attempt to redirect the conversation, "Come now, you are too modest. It is almost like you are a sun unto yourself, Silovar!"

"Only because I truly acknowledge them," Silovar laughs, Osthryn feels his fingers shifting uneasily against her bodice, belying his outward ease. "No mage is a mage without practice, and no practice is beneficial without the watchful blessing of the suns."

"Bah," Frederick scoffs, "We know that the suns themselves do not carry blessings of magic, it is merely an expression. Even if that was the source of your consistency, you have more power than any mage as young as you ought to have!"

"Perhaps the mages that failed in their connection felt as you do, and so brought it on themselves by neglecting their acknowledgement."

"Ha! Good one!" Frederick grins. He leans in close to Silovar. "I tell you, you can't hang on to whatever spellbook you have unearthed alone for long! I will find it, and teach you some things only a real mage knows," he finishes with a wink and a teasing wag of his finger.

"I would be glad if you found this spellbook you speak of, Frederick, I have yet to unearth it myself," Silovar responds, a thin smile on his face.

Frederick straightens himself on his feet, as if only now realising how far he invaded Silovar's personal space, "Ah! There is Levitia. I must hear how the fair prince is doing!"

He turns and leaves without a glance in Osthryn's direction.

Osthryn's eyes track the mage as he hurries off to his next conversation, her skin practically bristling at the uncomfortable encounter. She must have literally bristled, because Silovar's hand tightens yet again at the small of her back.

"You are my guest, not a guard dog. Stop growling and sit pretty, I will be fine. You mustn't draw too much notice to yourself," he whispers into her ear. Osthryn leans into him, whispering back, "I wasn't doing the growling."

Silovar gives her a sidelong look. "Oh, you were," he winks.

"Don't you think his line of questioning was a bit dangerous?" Osthryn nudges, ignoring the familiarity with which Silovar handled her tonight. This was not really the time to figure out what that means.

Silovar shrugs, "Only if you allow it to be. Always better to deflect these questions on the one asking them, and to assume they know nothing of what you are."

The room falls silent. Osthryn looks up to see that two guards are now stationed at each of the four entrances to the meeting-hall, outnumbering the servants. Silovar moves toward the table, and Osthryn follows their lead. Frederick walks past to the chair just beyond them, giving Silovar a hearty pat on the shoulder. Each mage and scribe have fallen to complete silence, the whole table standing at attention.

His Majesty King William the Wise enters from the Northernmost entrance at the head of the table. In unison, every person in the room with the exception of the guards either curtsy or bow at the waist.

“Good mages, scribes, and wise folk of Mountainkeep," His Majesty begins, raising his right hand. The delegates straighten and stand at ease. “I extend my thanks for heeding my invitation to this discussion of great import. Let us be seated as friends, and drink together for the health of us all."

Servants had already begun pouring wine into the goblets at each setting while the king was speaking. Following the lead of those around her, Osthryn sits down and takes her goblet in her hands, bracing herself for the inevitable sting of her well-practiced sip.

The king raises his goblet. “For Mountainkeep and All Whom She Shelters."

“For Mountainkeep and All Whom She Shelters," a choir of voices echo in response, watching the king so that they cand drink the moment he does.

Osthryn raises the goblet to her lips in tandem with everyone else, but Silovar pauses for a moment. Osthryn suspects that it is in anticipation of the discomfort it would likely cause. She sets down her goblet, pleased that she has suffered no ill effect. A sway and a gasp beside her alerts her that not the same could be said for Silovar.

She meets his eyes, glazed over with shock. His body goes slack, and his torso slumps.