Snippet #1465127

"Ha! Yah! Take this!" Raban lashed out once, twice, three times with the Valyrian steel blade, but the Other parried with its cold crystal sabre, blocking each stroke, a high-pitched keening rending the air whenever their weapons crossed. Laughing, Raban danced around his foe and harried it with a flurry of swift, sharp blows. The Other defended the first five, but on the sixth it was too slow and Steelsong bit into its milky armor, tearing a long gash in its pale flesh. The Other threw back its head and screamed an alien cry to the heavens.

"You may shout all you please, foul fiend," declared Raban, "but nothing and no one will help you now! I am Raban, of the House Damian, the wielder of Steelsong! I will avenge my family and drive back the demons of the Long Night! Look upon my blade and despair, for it shall be the last thing you ever do!"

"Raban!" The sharp, unforgiving voice shattered Raban's daydream, and suddenly he was no longer in the Haunted Forest, but in a training room in the castle. The Valyrian steel blade in his hand was nothing more than an old short sword, and the Other a mere battered training dummy. He looked up guiltily and saw the figure of Septon Timon framed in the doorway.

"So this is where you've been, you incorrigible boy!" Timon shouted. "Have you any idea how long I've been waiting in the study, hoping to finish your Economics lesson? You told me you were going to use the privy! You neglected to mention that you would spend two hours at swordplay!" Raban blushed and dropped the short sword back onto a weapons rack as though it was red-hot. "And I see you've ruined your new silk tunic, too! That was ordered especially for the feast!" Looking down, Raban saw to his surprise that he had indeed managed to get mud all over his new emerald tunic. Even worse, the hem was in tatters.

At last Septon Timon lowered his voice. "Oh, Raban," he said, shaking his head and folding his arms. "This kind of behaviour is simply unacceptable. You are a dozen years old now, and a squire to your brother Ser Lionel. It is time you stopped playing the boy and shouldered the burden of your responsibilities. You know what I should do, do you not," the septon said, shaking his head sadly, "I should really tell your lord father about this."

The threat worked. Panic blossomed on Raban's face and he approached the septon, babbling desperately. "Please, Septon Timon, don't tell Father! I've been trying, truly I have! You know I've been working hard these past few moons. I didn't mean to lie to you, I was just walking past the training room and saw the short sword on the table and... well, with this tournament coming up, I'm so excited that I shall see a real royal tourney, with jousting and duels and gallant knights from all over the realm. I won't neglect my duties again, I swear it, only don't tell Father. Please."

"We-e-e-ell..." said the septon, drawing out the suspense while Raban waited on tenterhooks. "Very well," he said at last, "but henceforth you shall dedicate yourself to your studies without fail, my prince. And we will make up that Economics lesson. Now, you've wasted so much time, you shall have to go and bathe and make yourself presentable at once. After that you will meet the King and Queen, Ser Lionel and Lady Adelaide in the throne room and prepare to receive the guests."

Raban went back to his room, swinging an imaginary sword in his hand as he walked, casually decapitating imaginary grumkins and snarks as they leapt at him. Next time he would slay the Other before Timon interrupted, he promised himself. When he got to his chambers, he found that a great wooden tub had been set before the fireplace and filled with hot water. His serving boy Pippin helped him to strip off his clothes, clamber into the tub and perform his ablutions. On Timon's orders, Pippin watched carefully to make sure that Raban cleansed himself thoroughly with the soft horsehair brush and the bar of sweet-smelling soap. Pippin was a quiet, gentle boy, and Raban had been able to push him around until Timon had scolded Pippin and ordered him to keep a strict eye on Raban. The serving boy might be scared of Raban, but he was more scared of Timon and the King, so he now kept a close watch on the prince and insisted that he follow the septon's orders.

After the bath was over, Raban was powdered, perfumed and dressed in a deep blue tunic and black vest decorated with the pure white wildcat of Damian. A pair of sable breeches and an ebony cloak, trimmed with aquamarine and embroidered with seed pearls, completed his outfit. He inspected his reflection carefully in the dressing table mirror, before sweeping from the room and majestically striding through the corridors towards the throne room, the cloak billowing behind him.

He felt a frisson of excitement in his stomach at the thought of the tourney ahead. Of course, he wouldn't be able to take part as a knight, but he was a squire now and would be very close to the fray. He would be allowed to stay in his brother Lionel's pavilion, and he would be in charge of seeing that all of Lionel's equipment was in order, tending to his horse and refreshing him between his bouts on the field. Raban had been to tournaments before, but this was his first one since becoming a squire, and being on the green made it that much sweeter than watching from the stands. The other special fact about this tourney was that it was being held in the King's name, a great honour that would attract the most accomplished knights from all over the kingdom. It would be the most remarkable spectacle that Raban had ever witnessed.

His only worry was that Lionel would not accord him the respect due to a squire. It wasn't fair, but although Raban did his utmost to serve his brother well and true, the crown prince was not the kind to show knightly affection nor brotherly love. At the last tourney Raban had served in, Lionel had lost a bout and returned to his pavilion in a black temper. When Raban had approached him to bathe his wounds, he was rewarded with a kick that sent him flying into a corner and left him bruised for weeks. He only hoped that Lionel would be in a sweeter mood this time. Otherwise Raban might have to have a word with Adelaide. She was the only one who truly listened to him, and he didn't feel ashamed to ask her for help. Lionel heeded her words, too. Last time she had spoken to him, he had gone easy on Raban, at least for a while.

Outside the throne room, Raban met Septon Timon, who was wearing his best robes, official septon's hat and the largest, most brilliant seven-sided crystal in his possession, depending from a cord around his neck. The septon cast Raban a critical look before nodding his approval and gesturing for him to enter the throne room. "Remember your manners in front of the guests," he said severely. "These are high-born from all over the realm. You must not disappoint the King and Queen. These are politically delicate times."

Raban didn't have to ask what the septon meant by that. Today, the principal members of the three most powerful Houses in the realm, Damian, Greyhardt and Winsler, with their lords bannermen and select warriors, would be dining under the same roof. And between the Damians and the Winslers, at least, there was no love lost.

Raban took a deep breath, assumed the proud bearing appropriate to a Damian and entered the throne room. He was relieved to see that apart from the King and Queen and their attendants, the room was empty. He advanced to the head of the chamber and took his place beside his mother.