20.10

Zyrdicia surveyed the burned-out market district in Geshna silently. This close to the Dragon's Crown mountains, the storm that dropped sleet on Castle Blackpool spit snow instead. She pulled the hood of her heavy, black fur cloak up to keep the falling white flakes off her face. Everyone insisted the storm was tapering off, though to her it still seemed potent.

The food riots prior to her return had been violent and devastating. Once the market reopened and goods again flowed through the Lyrian trade gates, the city had returned to its content, orderly routine. The market had been relocated, and reconstruction of the fire-damaged buildings had commenced at once.

A strange phenomenon accompanied news of Zyrdicia's visit. Everyone in the city professed outrage at the nameless rioters - despite the fact that most of the populace had been involved. Vigilante "loyalists" had already rounded up those "rumored" to be responsible, doused them in oil and lit them afire in the streets.

Zyrdicia's lips twisted unhappily as she regarded the snow-covered ruins of this section her urban creation. "Everything is so white," she muttered in disgust as she regarded the snow-covered cityscape.

The captain of the torture troopers stationed in the city bowed to her and offered, "It would be a small thing to stain the white with red, my queen." He cast a predatory glance at the throng that had formed in the square to watch the king and queen.

"NO!" Dirk yelled quickly. The sharp command startled the captain. The man was genuinely chastened by his sovereign's toxic glare.

"My apologies, Sire. I meant no offense," he stammered.

Zyrdicia met Dirk's gaze, forcing herself to quell her anxiety at the captain's intemperate suggestion. Dirk's gloved hand slipped beneath her cloak to wrap around her own fingers. He squeezed her hand painfully, though no one watching could have detected the subtle force of the gesture. She exhaled slowly, soothed by the touch. A few months ago she would have gleefully taken the captain up on his offer. She turned her attention deliberately to the riot's damage, pushing the blood's call from her mind.

A large crowd lined the streets for a glimpse of the royal couple. Their thoughts pounded against her, intruding on her efforts to plan the damaged sector's repair. She wanted nothing to do with the people. Right now, her admirers were simply a feature of the landscape, as trivial as potted plants. Potted plants, that is, whose thoughts polluted her psychic environment with an unyielding chatter.

Dirk scanned the crowd uneasily. A number of his soldiers accompanied them through the city, forcing the crowd back. Should the crowd become difficult, however, his men were vastly outnumbered. With Zyrdicia's magic unreliable and unpredictable, flight would become an unfortunate necessity.

Fortunately, everyone present seemed transfixed by the sight of the queen. By now every resident of Castle Blackpool was well accustomed to the otherworldly sensation of her appearance. The common-folk outside the castle, though, still reacted as though she were some sort of divine apparition.

Dirk had heard reports of rumors circulating in the city that her merest touch would cause one to be blessed with wealth. The sight of hundreds of hands greedily stretching out to grasp at his wife as she passed by revolted him. Were it not for the risk of unleashing Zyrdicia's blood hunger, he would have ordered his men to cut off any such hands that strayed too near her. This aspect of her self-appointed goddess role left the king anxious. The people of the North were not accustomed to gods walking among them as the Lyrians were. Everywhere she went tonight, there was a cheering mob.

"I'm glad the riot happened!" Zyrdicia announced, already envisioning something different in the space.

"Glad that opportunistic peasants destroyed an entire quarter of the city?" Dirk jeered.

"Yes! My original plan for it left the roads much too narrow. They had been clogged with carts going to and from the market. It needs wide boulevards instead. And it should be much grander. Large enough for military parades."

She nodded thoughtfully to herself, "The destruction was useful. But then, it always is."

"It doesn't bother you at all that they did this?" he demanded in frustration. It bothered the king quite a lot. Had she not returned, he would have likely leveled the city to teach the disobedient inhabitants a lesson.

"Of course not. Lyr is only as beautiful as it is because it has been demolished so often. Every time it's rebuilt, it becomes a bit more perfect. This is merely an opportunity to improve my design here," she smiled, wrapping her hand around her husband's forearm.

20.10.1

Even on a cold winter night, the new Geshnan market bustled with activity. It glittered with bright, magical lights. Sparkling, colored glass orbs and streamers decorated many stalls and signposts. Fur-covered citizens rushed to and fro gaily, oblivious to the cold and deep drifts of snow. Here in the foothills of the Dragon's Crown Mountains, winter already was well under way.

Enormous ice sculptures adorned the entrance to the makeshift, temporary market site. Ten-foot renditions of snow orchids, of the Blackpool sigil, and of the royal couple dwarfed the passersby. Zyrdicia stopped in front of the giant sculpture of herself and the King of the North. The pair of ice figures had been carved out of a single block. The rendition was exceptionally well done.

Dirk had never experienced citizens spontaneously erecting monuments to him. As on the night of the coronation, he found the adoration a pleasant surprise. Such displays nourished the monarch's ego. He murmured thoughtfully, "I find the choice of material rather fitting.".

"The symbolism is lovely, but what happens when the ice melts?"

"We have several months to ponder how to solve that problem," Dirk smirked. Winter had barely begun. The statue would be here for quite a while.

Zyrdicia eyes moved to a large drift of snow piled up against a building at the edge of the square. A playful smile touched her lips.

Dirk followed her gaze and echoed her smile. It was the first time she had seen snow since their trip to his hunting lodge months ago. "Not here!" he warned quietly, raising one finger in warning.

"I still owe you for last time," she grinned.

"As I recall, you got yourself into that conflict, and foolishly insisted on its escalation. You got precisely what you deserved that night."

"Do you mean the snow or what happened after?" she smiled slyly.

Dirk raised an eyebrow knowingly, but said nothing. He preferred not to tempt her to respond. He feared the sight of the nation's purported patron goddess flinging snow at the king of the North would undermine the present impression of authority.

She tugged him along into the makeshift bazaar, housed inside the sprawling atrium of the city hall while the main market underwent reconstruction. In addition to a dizzying assortment of everything imaginable from Lyr, the chaos contained several stalls featuring distinctive wooden toys, the ubiquitous colored glass orbs like those hanging all over the city, and other decorations.

Zyrdicia paused at one of them, interested in the intricately carved, painted, military figurines. Native goods had begun to commingle with Lyrian imports in the market, now that people had the money to spend.

An old man wearing a paint-stained, brown leather apron peaked out from behind a shelf full of toy soldiers. He bowed deferently before the famous woman regarding his handiwork. "Hans Spieler, at your service, Your Highness!"

"Since when are toys sold here?" Zyrdicia demanded.

"This region used to be renowned for its toy makers, my lady. Dagon Village was once the toy capital of Aperans. This time of year, people from all over the kingdom used to come to the village for the toy parade."

"Why?"

"Yule! It's truly the best time of the year! At least it used to be. It's becoming so again," he smiled, gesturing to the heavily decorated, festive market.

"What happened to make the village no longer the toy capital?"

"The war. There was no one left to buy toys. Only weapons. But now they want toys again. There aren't many toy makers left though. We're a dying breed."

"Happily," Dirk muttered under his breath behind her. He pulled at Zyrdicia, "Let's go."

"Not yet." She glared at Dirk impatiently, "Did you know anything about a toy parade?"

The spritely, old man looked at the king thoughtfully, awaiting the answer. His hands tugged absently upon the strings of his apron. He looked disappointed when Dirk answered, "No."

"But it remembers you, Sire!" the old man said sadly. "You came every year, with your mother. She always brought you this time of year to visit the old Baron Dagonet, her cousin. You always watched for the float with the great battle of toy soldiers upon it. You were such a serious-looking child!"

"You are still serious-looking," Zyrdicia smiled, kissing Dirk's cheek before he could become unpleasant. "Though I find it rather obnoxious that the barony you gave me is really a winter toyland."

"I'd forgotten all about that," he replied defensively. The family had ceased celebrating Yule after his mother's death. He had not thought about the annual battle of mechanized wooden soldiers in years. His eyes moved over the many shelves of painstakingly decorated toys, remembering. He picked up one of the soldiers and noted it recreated his palace guards' present uniform to the most intricate detail.

The toy maker's eyes glittered. "May I show you my masterpiece?"

"Please!" Zyrdicia encouraged, catching a mental picture of it from the toy maker's mind.

The old man pulled a large, painted wooden platform out of the box. Upon it stood a twelve-inch figure of the new king of the North. Every detail had been perfectly rendered - from his trade mark black leather, to his frightening scowl. The figure held a sword aloft in the air. Next to it crouched an equally perfect miniature version of Erik Greystone. The good prince's face had been painted masterfully to depict an expression of terror. The toy maker wound a knob several times, then flipped a small lever on the side of the platform. The Dirk-figure moved mechanically, striking the cowering Erik-figure in the neck with the upraised sword. Erik's yellow-painted, wooden head fell off. The miniature Dirk then raised one fist triumphantly, completing the ingenious mechanism's cycle.

Zyrdicia's eyes widened in delight. "Again!"

The toy maker obeyed, popping the southern prince's head back into the socket, and rewinding the mechanism. He flipped the lever, and the action repeated.

"That's the most brilliant piece of artwork I've ever seen!" Dirk whispered, transfixed.

Hans Spieler bowed, "I made it to honor the boy who used to watch the toy soldiers, now that he has become king. My coronation gift to you, Sire."

"I think he should be chartered as the Royal Toy Maker," Zyrdicia laughed, her eyes still upon the clever device.

"Indeed," Dirk smiled, terribly pleased by the toy. "I proclaim it so."

He gestured one of his men to step forward and retrieve the mechanical plaything.

The king and queen continued through the market, still laughing about the Spieler's masterpiece. A familiar face appeared in the path through the stalls ahead of them.

Tristan Ildwynd smiled congenially in greeting, then bowed. "My king, what a pleasant surprise!"

"Count Ildwynd," Dirk answered coldly. "Hi."

"My queen," Tristan nodded with perfect politeness. Zyrdicia suspected he was disappointed that she was not alone. She made no effort to offer him her hand to kiss. Both her hands were presently wrapped around Dirk's forearm, beneath his cloak. She had no intention of relinquishing the marginal warmth.

"What brings you to Geshna?" Zyrdicia asked, knowing full well he had come here to seek her out.

"Supplies, naturally," Tristan answered deftly. "Food is scarce anywhere else."

"We won't keep you from your errand, then," Dirk announced curtly.

"I heard you sent a large caravan of food to the South, Sire," Tristan noted, his face betraying his curiosity. "Are we to be at peace with them for Yule?"

"Naturally," Dirk crooned sarcastically. "Eternal peace."

Zyrdicia stifled a giggle, squeezing Dirk's hand tightly.

"Bye," Dirk smiled condescendingly, terminating the conversation before Tristan could inquire further. Despite his surprise at the terse dismissal, Tristan bowed again then politely continued on his way.

A sweet, tantalizing odor wafted through the air.

"Oblat," Dirk smiled, recognizing it immediately. "Come! Let's find it."

"What's oblat?"

"A local gingerbread, baked only this time of year, and only here."

"Why are you smiling?"

"They stopped baking it about the time the toy parade vanished. I haven't smelled it in years."

"Why did they stop?"

"The requisite spices could no longer be supplied from the South."

At the end of the market an open doorway led to the smell's source. Across a small square from the city hall, a large bakery was doing a brisk business, despite the late hour. Several apprentices drizzled a sugar glaze over a great quantity of the disc-shaped confections. The baker's wife sold them to a large crowd from behind a white counter, along with huge mugs of hot cider. No one seemed to think it strange to conduct business in the middle of the night, in the middle of winter. The refreshments only added to the city's festive spirit.

The crowd parted as the king and queen entered. Guards kept the crowd at bay, if only to prevent the adoring mob from annoying the royal couple. The baker himself shooed the throng out and shut the door, unwilling to share the illustrious visitors' attention. "What an honor!" he greeted happily. "Welcome! Please, please do sit down! Warm yourselves!" He gestured to a newly vacated table in the bakery's storefront.

The baker's wife appeared with hot cider and warm oblats instantly. Zyrdicia's hands quickly covered the warm mug, happy to feel the heat. She watched Dirk inhale the first cinnamon-colored disc.

She noted, "You look happy."

He shot her a quizzical look, still chewing. The comment sounded strange, directed at him. He could not remember ever hearing it before outside a battlefield victory. The fact of the matter was he now enjoyed his kingdom more than ever before. He was used to the North being desolate, impoverished and misery-filled.

He swallowed the bite in his mouth, then took a long sip of the hot cider. His treasury was already overflowing from the arcanium revenue. His army controlled a huge swath of the South. He had just poisoned most of Baaldorf's subjects. His nation universally perceived him to possess divine authority as the monarch the gods had chosen to lead the North to victory. He smiled smugly to himself. It was, indeed, good to be king.