Yesterday, 09:52 PM
Xavier listened in silence. He gave no nods, no soft sounds of approval or agreement. To do so would have been too easily mistaken for trust freely given. And trust, for all its virtues, could not be granted on impulse, even to those who seemed to warrant it. But in truth, he was satisfied. More than satisfied, if he allowed himself honesty. The man spoke as a soldier, not a braggart. Measured, never boastful. Willing to fight in the formation, not merely above it.
Xavier allowed himself a long breath as the Asha’man finished. He folded his hands, fingers interlaced over his knee, and sat back with the bearing of a lord who had not come by his title through ease or inheritance alone. Versatility and practicality were traits he could use. But more importantly, they were traits his men could survive alongside.
He thought of the formations posted along the northern rise like Captain Ilya’s second company, the outer wall’s sentry rotations. He would need to rework a few plans, but no sweeping changes were in order. But a single unit could be designated to integrate with the Asha'man, unless the captain suggested a better option. They were already the most adaptable of his forward defenses.
Training would begin at first light; he would see to it himself for when the time came, Xavier would be right alongside.
Xavier’s eyes drifted toward the hearth, where the firelight danced over Aelin’s face. She was still silent and watching. A question in her eyes, perhaps, or a calculation. She had not spoken in weeks, yet he had learned long ago that her silence was never idle. He wondered what she beheld, if anything.
Zoradin would need a full view of the terrain soon. The outlying fortifications, the Blightwatch towers to the north, the collapsed northern pass where the hillside had fallen two winters past. The Keep itself could be surveyed from atop the west tower - the oldest of the four, still standing from the days before Artur Hawkwing’s fall. Xavier filed the thought away. Perhaps after the mornings' drills.
Malek entered and bowed once, his limp more pronounced in the long hall.
“My Lord. The meal is prepared.”
Xavier rose smoothly to his feet.
“Come,” he said simply, and turned to lead the way.
They moved through the upper corridors of the Keep, past walls bearing the history of House Armendariz. Paintings, relics, a broken banner mounted behind glass that once flew during the defense of High Hill. The warmth of the solar gave way to cool stone and flickering torchlight, the murmur of waiting servants rising ahead.
The doors to the banquet hall opened with a groan of iron hinges. The room beyond was prepared not in grandeur, but certainly in care. A long table was set with silver, dark blue linens, and dishes native to the northern ranges of roasted pheasant, mountain roots, and flatbread dusted with wild herbs. A flagon of thick red wine rested near Xavier’s seat, though he would not touch it until the meal was well underway, and even then, only a cup.
The banners of House Armendariz hung high along the walls: one for each branch of the bloodline, and a fifth, blank and black, for the dead.
As they entered, the assembled soldiers and house officials stood, fists to hearts, eyes on their lord. Kenta was steadfast.
Xavier’s gaze swept the room once before he spoke. “Tonight,” he announced, “we dine with an honored guest. A man sent by the M’Hael himself, to stand at Fal Sion’s side. Let it be known that the One Power stands now with the steel of this Keep.” He inclined his head, a subtle gesture of inclusion, and moved to take his place at the head of the table.
Later, after the formalities, after the wine had been poured and the first course begun, he would signal Captain Moren to prepare a rider. A message must be sent to Fal Moran and the king informed of their good fortune.
Xavier allowed himself a long breath as the Asha’man finished. He folded his hands, fingers interlaced over his knee, and sat back with the bearing of a lord who had not come by his title through ease or inheritance alone. Versatility and practicality were traits he could use. But more importantly, they were traits his men could survive alongside.
He thought of the formations posted along the northern rise like Captain Ilya’s second company, the outer wall’s sentry rotations. He would need to rework a few plans, but no sweeping changes were in order. But a single unit could be designated to integrate with the Asha'man, unless the captain suggested a better option. They were already the most adaptable of his forward defenses.
Training would begin at first light; he would see to it himself for when the time came, Xavier would be right alongside.
Xavier’s eyes drifted toward the hearth, where the firelight danced over Aelin’s face. She was still silent and watching. A question in her eyes, perhaps, or a calculation. She had not spoken in weeks, yet he had learned long ago that her silence was never idle. He wondered what she beheld, if anything.
Zoradin would need a full view of the terrain soon. The outlying fortifications, the Blightwatch towers to the north, the collapsed northern pass where the hillside had fallen two winters past. The Keep itself could be surveyed from atop the west tower - the oldest of the four, still standing from the days before Artur Hawkwing’s fall. Xavier filed the thought away. Perhaps after the mornings' drills.
Malek entered and bowed once, his limp more pronounced in the long hall.
“My Lord. The meal is prepared.”
Xavier rose smoothly to his feet.
“Come,” he said simply, and turned to lead the way.
They moved through the upper corridors of the Keep, past walls bearing the history of House Armendariz. Paintings, relics, a broken banner mounted behind glass that once flew during the defense of High Hill. The warmth of the solar gave way to cool stone and flickering torchlight, the murmur of waiting servants rising ahead.
The doors to the banquet hall opened with a groan of iron hinges. The room beyond was prepared not in grandeur, but certainly in care. A long table was set with silver, dark blue linens, and dishes native to the northern ranges of roasted pheasant, mountain roots, and flatbread dusted with wild herbs. A flagon of thick red wine rested near Xavier’s seat, though he would not touch it until the meal was well underway, and even then, only a cup.
The banners of House Armendariz hung high along the walls: one for each branch of the bloodline, and a fifth, blank and black, for the dead.
As they entered, the assembled soldiers and house officials stood, fists to hearts, eyes on their lord. Kenta was steadfast.
Xavier’s gaze swept the room once before he spoke. “Tonight,” he announced, “we dine with an honored guest. A man sent by the M’Hael himself, to stand at Fal Sion’s side. Let it be known that the One Power stands now with the steel of this Keep.” He inclined his head, a subtle gesture of inclusion, and moved to take his place at the head of the table.
Later, after the formalities, after the wine had been poured and the first course begun, he would signal Captain Moren to prepare a rider. A message must be sent to Fal Moran and the king informed of their good fortune.