She figured the Inner City was where the wealthier inhabitants dwelled. The blue-tiled houses were of brick and placed stone. Great inns sprawled, filled to bursting with traveling nobles and affluent patrons. The noise was somewhat slighter there, and more of the carriages and wagons were covered. The streets were paved with smoother stone as well, so the wheels whirred easier.
They passed the Great Hall, where the judges sat in their council, and the Collegian, where the learned men discussed philosophy and the matters of reason, where the brightest minds went for higher learning. The massive cathedral of Divinity was a remarkable sight, a mammoth building that dwarfed those around it, with great spires that seemed to try to rival those of the Royal Palace. The Sword of Deis topped the spires, emblazoned on the banners and windows.
The Palace itself sat atop a high hill overlooking the city; strategically placed to have a view of any approaching enemy. On its backside was a sheer cliff, leaving it approachable only from the front.
That would only impress those interested in defenses. She was no different from any others who came from leagues around to gaze upon its beauty. She noticed Dradyn appeared at least as awestruck as she.
The foundations were cut from the blue-flecked stone of the hill. The rest was similarly fashioned, a gleaming palace cut from marble, a poem of a city snatched from a minstrel's dream, with grand towers and spires jutting toward the clouds above the great stone walls. The rooftops were tiled blue and gold, with golden flags flying from the turrets. Above the main towers flew the standard of the Golden Lion.
They approached massive iron-wrought gates, engraved with a lion battling a maned serpentine creature with large eyes. The carvings and gold color by no means diminished the intimidating weight the gates possessed. They were built to keep even the most desperate, powerful enemy outside the walls. The Gatekeepers that stood guard outside were merely for show, in their blue and black tabards covering their shirts of mail. Golden-plumed gleaming helmets set atop their heads, all which turned toward Marcellus and Dradyn as they approached.
"Dismount." Marcellus practically leaped off his horse. He still wore the black and hooded cloak, which was probably the reason for the guards' wary looks.
"Stay here until I call." He strode toward the guards, who silently watched him approach. Once he was close enough, one of the men held out a hand to halt him.
"Tread easily, you who approach the Lion Hall. State your business and be quick about it."
Marcellus ducked his head and spoke quietly. "I come from Bruallia with urgent news for His Majesty, King Lucretius. Let me pass."
The guard gave Marcellus a sneering glance. "I have no orders to allow passage of any messengers, save those who bear the signs. Best you be about your vile business before I have you clapped in irons for disturbing the peace." The other Guardsmen gathered, smirking at the impending humiliation.
Marcellus stood quietly for a moment, allowing the lead guard to realize his threats had no effect. Nyori noticed with certain satisfaction that the guard's expression changed from vindictive to slightly uneasy. He licked his lips nervously and blinked as Marcellus looked at him from the shadows of his hood. The man glanced back at his fellows, and when assured they were there to back him, opened his mouth angrily.
Before he could speak, Marcellus pulled back his hood and cloak, displaying the Silver Horn emblazoned across the chest of his dark blue tabard, the uniform of the Champion of Kaerleon. The guards fell back in astonishment, and their leader could only gape, dumbfounded.
Marcellus spoke softly. "Do not act as if we have not met, for we know each other well, Josef, son of Geor. Or have you forgotten when I saved your life when you froze in fear at the charge of the rebels of Brumar? It appears the hospitality of Kaerleon has grown just as cold since I was last here."
Josef's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before he found his voice. "Lord Admorran! It was said you were slain in the fields of Bruallia — there was a funeral for you in the tombs of the kings."
"I can assure you that I am no ghost. But I cannot tarry here, for my business is with the king. You must take me to him at once."
Josef saluted. "I will take you right away, milord. But I cannot promise he will see even you."
"Why?"
Josef gestured toward the morning sky. "It is not yet full morning. His Majesty is rarely seen while the sun shines anymore."
A few moments later their footsteps echoed down the halls of the palace. They were flanked by a number of young knights who had joined Josef as a guard of honor. Nyori looked over her shoulder. The guards must have run and spread the news.
Nobles, lords, and ladies of the court trailed closely behind. It was almost amusing to witness them try to retain their dignity while peeking around the knights for a glimpse of Marcellus Admorran. Nyori began to understand the extent of Marcellus' reputation even when in the Mandru caste, but she saw firsthand his impact on his people. Here was Kaerleon's favored son, their Champion; the man who escaped the very jaws of death to return home.
Josef walked beside them with an air of self-importance spoiled only by the reverent looks he gave Marcellus. "Milord. I want to let you know that whatever happens, I am your man to the death. I am with you."
Marcellus glanced at him with narrowed eyes. "What do you speak of, man?"
"The king is mad, milord. He sent you to your death. All know of this, though no one dares to say so out loud. He has caused Kaerleon to become a laughingstock. Before long the provinces will begin to test their strength against us. But now, with you back from the dead…I feel like you can change how things are done, milord. You are the one to lead us."
Marcellus stared straight ahead. "You dream, knight. This is no minstrel's tale. There will be no returning hero. My business is with the king. Everything else is ashes."
Josef's expression grew startled. "Milord?"
Marcellus ignored him. They reached the end of the Great Hall, where the Doorkeeper stood stoutly, accompanied by a small squad of strangely attired guards. They were garbed head to toe in black: armor and tabards, and snug hoods that hugged their faces behind steel face guards. Only their dark, unimpressed eyes were visible as their hands hovered over their short swords.
Nyori exhaled softly. Word had spread quickly, indeed.
"Who comes to see the king?" The rotund man's voice boomed, but there was sweat on his brow, and the quick glances from his beady eyes were definitely nervous.
Marcellus answered in a loud, clear voice. "Marcellus Admorran. Lord of Royan and anointed Champion of Kaerleon. I have business with the king today, Harlin Masters. Neither your blackguard nor your poisoned blade shall bar my way."
Rumbles of approval rippled behind them from the still-gathering crowd. Harlin's eyes flicked their direction for a moment before settling back on Marcellus.
"Marcellus Admorran is dead, impostor, and you dishonor his memory by claiming his name. Stand down, or you shall be humbled before this crowd and put in the stocks for your treachery."
There was a scraping sound. Dradyn stood beside Nyori and Marcellus with his sword upraised. "This man is my liege lord, and Champion of Kaerleon. Let anyone who would call him an impostor face me now."
Harlin's eyes narrowed. "Are you threatening me, farm hand?"