7 - The Banquet
It isn’t when folks want me dead I should worry; it’s when they want me alive.
Second time I entered Dragon’s Reach, guard even holds the door open for me. His Jarlness on the throne is flanked either side by what I immediately recognise as lackeys. Bit’a potion’n I’m sharper’n ever.
Soon as he sees me bein brought up by a guard His Jarlness risks breakin character by plasterin on what he likely reckons is a charming smile. Chills are runnin down my spine.
“Why if it isn’t the hero of the Reach.”
This quip rolls from the tongue of the black-robed bastard better known as Farengar while Balgruuf is still loosing at the hinges.
I hear about once in every thousand years there is born a warm-blooded mage destined to be a palace wizard, a sort of hero-warlock amongst the standard frost-blooded reptiles slitherin around on the cold wet rocks. It took one single look at Mr Black next to His Jarlness to know the legacy’a the frost-bloods was safe for this generation.
The Jarl, bless him, utters a roar of a laugh. “Hero of the Reach, ha! Try the hero of Skyrim, if what you’re suggesting be true, Farengar. Come, lad,” he ushers me closer, “Dear gods ye stink like a smelter, but at least that beats yesterday’s eau d’loo. My court mage has a few questions for you, then we can get down to the real business of celebration. Go on, Steward, fetch him up a seat. There you go.” I’m pushed into a wooden chair worth more than my family home. It’s the Steward pushing me. I could refuse to sit, but he’s such an intent look upon his face it’s either I bend my knees or get buried up to them in the flagstones.
As soon as I’m two foot shorter’n everyone else, Farengar begins to circle my chair. He watches me, dun speak. His Jarlness leans forward eagerly on the throne.
“Go on then, Farengar. Ask him.”
Followin Farengar pacing between my peripheries, I realise the Jarl must have near-on his entire household in attendance. And it ain’t just guards loiterin in the doorways. I listen, I can hear fat fryin, a cook shoutin fer more salt. Plates and iron pots clanging. Somethin thick n wet bein smacked repeatedly gainst a wooden bench. The gurgle’a drains. And that’s to say nothin of the aromas.
“I’m not a man given to trusting rumours,” Farengar tells me at last, his slaughterfish gaze fallin on me momentarily beyond the hood’a his robe. His circle draws him behind me. “However I here believe I have heard one worth attending to. You, humble as you are,” he appears only to glare at me once more, “You may be the greatest of us all.”
Boy does he have me pegged wrong.
He goes on. “Although you were born mortal of body, it is my belief you possess the immortal soul of a dragon.”
I what-? I burst out laughing, too surprised t’even stop meself. The soul of a dragon – maybe Farengar is the legendary warm-tempered palace mage after all.
He narrows his eyes. I isn’t alone in laughin – sommer the servants and guards think it’s just as funny. Aller us stop dead the second Falengar opens his mouth.
“So glad I can amuse.” Snap. Bitter. Silence. Farengar glowers beneath his cowl. “Tell me,” he nods to me, “What do you find so entertaining – the idea your worthless life could be of benefit to humankind?”
Well, yeah. This is all gettin a bit outta hand. I got to speak, not matter who might chop off m’head for it. “Sir Wizard, thing is, I’m real glad t’have helped y’all. Yer Majesty, likewise. But beyond I kilt them two dragons, and luck must be my failsafe I managed it, I ain’t got nothin to tell yer.”
His Jarlness pulls a face remembered from before the time he was his namesake. “The banquet is in your honour-”
“No,” I says, and I stand right up off this overpriced seat. “I got a brother ain’t gettin any less dead. Maw will want t’know, funeral hasta be arranged, Pa or Bodilla n me prob’ly gun hafta go on out to the Border see if bears n wolves n skeevers left him alone enough we can bury him – nother thing Temple’a Mara in Riften’s gun hafta be let know they got a corpse comin through. Talos be damned.” I reverse-moon His Jarlness. “I’m sorry. Enjoy your banquet.”
Secretly my heart is bangin away as I walk past the adorned long-table. The Jarl can lie as he pleases – Whiterun is a perial stronghold, and I’m just a Nord, and up here in Dragonsreach I’m freer t’die or be inquisitioned than I am to breathe his Jarlness’s royal air.
I’m almost at the end of the banquet table. One sure step after another, boy.
“Stop.”
His Jarlness. I want t’run, cry, and hide under a bed. Knowin my luck the under bed space would be time-shared with a dragon.
I turn to him. “Yes, yer Majesty?”
His Jarlness nods to his guards. They rush forward and take my arms, a third trainin his polished steel dagger on my throat. All three dogs snap their heads to the Jarl. He cranks a finger at us. “Bring him here.”
They entirely unnecessarily drag me with em to the Jarl’s feet. Farengar stands over me, leerin. The itchin dagger convinces me to meet His Jarlness eye to eye.
“I take it your brother is dead?” he says to me, and there is not one single other sound in all of Dragonsreach.
“Yeah. He’s dead.”
“Good, strong, loyal Nord like yourself?”
If by good he meant simple, strong he meant lazy, and loyal he meant skooma-addicted, then Margeth ticked every box. “Yes, yer Majesty.”
“Died in the course of duty?”
I hesitate. That could mean just about anythin. And my spiel about bein a secret agent for the ‘perial cause weren’t gun hold out if His Jarlness pegged me for a Cloaker. “No, yer Majesty. He was trampled by a horse.”
His Jarlness nods. “As are many of Skyrim’s good young men.” He pauses, a contented sort of silence spent gazin at me in much the same way as a giant gazes at a goat. “Scores of Skyrim’s people – Nords, Imperials, Red Guards, Bretons – are dying every week in the name of Ulfrick Stormcloak and now General Tullius. Freedom, loyalty – to which do you swear allegiance, cousin?”
A trick question if I ever heard one. I said ‘perials and His Jarlness would likely pull out a bear suit. “Neither, sir,” I say as humbly as pie, “It’s too grand a decision for any one man to call.”
His Jarlness almost cracks a smile. “Yet two have called it, and now the rest of Skyrim falls as playing cards to either side. And fall they do, and pay with life and limb, and war chokes our resources whilst rendering itself a crushing burden. So many sons and daughters of Skyrim have died, cousin. Now we face losing more than ever to the dragons. And you would deny us your aid for the sake of a single, dead brother?”
Oh. Oh shit. So that’s where this was headed. Right down Shit fucking Creek. The eyes of the household fall upon me, as keen and hungry as the dungeon skeevers.
“My Jarl.” There are no hands nor daggers on me now. I am on my knees on the first step of the throne, too far from the Jarl to even spit in his eye. The most leaden of feelings drops my eyes to the stone. “The honour to aid you will be mine.”
Silence. Gods, I’m sick of it.
The Jarl smiles at me when I lift my eyes to his. “Then I name ye Thane of Whiterun, Skole of Shor’s Stone, foretold hero of Skyrim. It’s obvious to me you’re the one; you’re a born hero. Farengar will explain the rest.” A sudden liveliness strikes him, and he claps and shouts, “The banquet! Get the blasted banquet on the table!”
The household bursts into activity, as frenzied as slaughterfish on a bleeding elk. Not wishin to be the elk, I find my feet. His Jarlness nods to me. Two very attractive Nord girls are helping him to stand. The Jarl murmurs somethin to one of them. She draws graciously from his side and sashays along to mine.
“My Thane,” she smiles, “Please call me Lydia. I have been bestowed the honour of becoming your housecarl. Please, let me show you to the table.”
I can see the table plenty well from where I am. The lovely Lydia takes my arm and leads me to it. She smells of leather perfumed with sandalwood, and she looks far too clean t’be latchin on t’me. She pulls out a chair. When I just stand there, she says, “Go on, my Thane. This banquet is in your honour – you must sit beside the Jarl.”
Awwwright. “Will you sit next t’me?”
Lydia smiles. “No, my Thane, although that would be my greatest pleasure.” Her eyes drop momentarily to my crotch. All of my recent despair goes hurtlin into space. “Alas, I am but a housecarl. I will take my place with the other lesser guards further from the Jarl’s great presence.”
Oh my holy Talos. Lydia makes sure my seat is pushed in just right before sallying away, her fingertips tracing the back of my neck as she goes like the breath of a red hot brand. Chills rn the length’a me. Holy-!
“Uh, I’m sorry?”
By the time I realise there’s someone talkin to me, moster the household have taken their seats. His Jarlness at the head’a the table; me’n the Steward at the top seats, the other ministers trickling down from us, then the lesser soldiers such as Lydia, then the general household right at the foot of the table.
The Jarl and his Stewart have each made a speech, and dinner is served, dinner like every hot meal you ever seen all piled on topper one another, the heat comin off it enormous; I’m just about fingerin my roast pertaters as I drift on the topic of Lydia.
Farengar the demon is beside me. His frown deepens.
“I said, you are the one of whom the Greybeards foretold. You are the Dragonborn.”
Haven’t we been through this already? “Pretty much.”
Farengar looks me up n down. I’d rather Lydia or Irileth for that particular purpose. Speakin of Irileth, where is she? I may have her undies in my pocket.
“Where’s Irileth?” I say to Farengar, who is in the midst of sayin how the Greybeards had sent them this private message about the return of the dragons and some unlucky bastard who was all man and part dragon gun stop the other dragons or some other hoohah I din want t’hear.
He scowls. “Oh her way to Kynesgrove, undoubtedly. Haven’t you heard it was destroyed by a dragon?”
I’d spent the night on a temple roof. Why’dd I know anythin about what Kynesgrove was doin?
“Shame,” I say, speakin more of Irileth.
Farengar looks like he cares about Kynesgrove as much as I do. “Yes. You are the Dovahkiin, the Dragonborn. You do understand that? I’ve been researching it ever since I found that – er, since the Jarl read to me the Greybeards’ prophecy. Only one born with the immortal soul of a dragon is able to absorb the souls of dragons and prevent them from rising again.”
Really? Neat.
Farengar leans too close to me. “What did it look like? How did it feel?”
What, t’have my fist in his face? Cause that’s what he was headed for. “Did what feel?”
“Absorbing a dragon’s soul, of course. Did you see it – was it similar to other souls?”
“Dunno.” I’d never seen a soul once in me entire life. In fact I’m startin t’have this real strange feelin in the pit’a me guts. Kinda like I’m far deeper in shit than they ever made gumboots for. I swallow a bitter leek. “What oughter it look like?”
The wizard flinches. “Before we do anything else, we really must work on your grammar. Every time you open your mouth, a white narwhale dies. If you learnt the dragon tongue with the way you speak now, you would probably destroy us all.”
A nudge from my other side. The Jarl. “You’re just lucky you came in when you did, boy. I’m expecting my brother along any time now – you can bet he’d have something to say about a knave becoming a thane!” He utters a long, dry laugh loosed from the baked dirt of his throat by the Black-briar mead flowing freely around the table. Farengar taps my shoulder impatiently. But he dun want to talk t’me; he ushers me flat back against the seat n addresses the Jarl.
“So the Greybeards were right. The Dragonborn walks among us in our time of need.”
“Indeed.” The Jarl pauses to stroke his beard. “We’ll send our man onto High Hrothgar on the morrow. Best they show him how it’s done.” He glances at me. “D’you know any Shouts, boy?”
My panicking ears pick up the capital S on Shouts. He’s talking about the words of power! Cock and cock again. My heart skips. Dragon souls, words of power – so completely outside my realm of experience I’m beginnin to see my survival was not luck, but the cruellest of jokes.
“I know a few,” I lie, after a draught of mead. “I wish I could demonstrate, but wouldn’t wanna kill yer guards, yer Majesty.”
“Just Jarl will do,” Balgruuf tells me. “I know how you mean; rumour has it Ulfrick Shouted Torygg to pieces. I don’t want to see any dismembered kings in here!”
“Right, right,” I force a laugh.
Farengar is waitin for my attention. He speaks through a mouth fuller pertater. “So you never told me; how does one pick a dragon soul from an immortal soul?”
I’m so sure this geezer is onto me.
“It looks just like a regular soul,” I tell him, “But immortal. And covered in scales. And with these big wings like a bat outta Vaermina’s best nightmare.”
“Did you experiment with drawing either soul into a soul gem?”
“You know, I thought of that, but at the time I was too busy fightin dragons to try it.”
Okay, maybe he wasn’t onto me. Maybe he was just an idiot.
He nods. “Makes sense. Dragon magic – dragon Shouts. Is it possible absorbing the souls of the beasts added power to your Shouts?”
“Oi!” cries the Jarl. Music and laughter erupt at the opposite end of the table. “Stop hounding him, wizard! Girls, girls, up here! Do a dance for the Dovahkiin!”
A couple of wood elf girls are on the table, grindin their hips and shakin their ample chests to the beat of the drums. People at the table start to clap in time as the girls, gigglin, jigglin, rush over the emptying plates towards His Jarlness.
One leans over towards me. I can see straight down her tunic. She winks. “Dance with me, Dragonborn?”
I glance at the Jarl. “You may as well,” he says, “Who knows – you could be eaten by a dragon tomorrow.”
With nothin else for it, I climb up on the table. The household cheers. My wood elf kisses me on the cheek before drawin me in to dance.
The hero of Whiterun. The hero of Skyrim. There’s no way I can tell these people they’re wrong. And who could be bothered to think’a excuses with, whoa, this in front’a them?
The wood elf grins at me. “Come on, hero – dance!”
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