Free The Bark of the Bog Owl by Jonathan Rogers

Errolsons, in their close-fitting, unadorned blue robes, felt underdressed for the occasion.
    “Father,” called Maynard in a loud whisper. Errol was two strides ahead of them, making straight across the courtyard without looking to his left or right.“Father, are you sure we’re dressed the way we’re supposed to be?”
    Errol spun around to answer his son. He spoke through clenched teeth. “We were invited to a treaty feast not a costume party. We are dressed as Corenwalders. If our countrymen wish to preen like Pyrthens, that is their business and none of ours.” He turned back and continued his march to the great hall, his step a little brisker than before.
    The great hall was larger than Aidan had imagined. From end to end it was thirty-five strides of a full-grown man and from side to side twenty man-strides or more. The flames of forty torches set in the massive walls hardly provided enough light for such an enormous space, but they lent a rich glow to the honey-brown sandstone.
    The ceiling vaulted up out of sight, obscured by darkness and torch smoke. The fireplace was piled with logs that would each require two strong men to carry, but no fire blazed on this hot, muggy night.
    The walls were adorned with skillfully woven tapestries depicting great moments in Corenwald’s history—Radnor’s charge at Berrien, the burning of the Pyrthen fleet at Middenmarsh, the sieges of Tambluff. Interspersed between the tapestries were Darrow’s hunting trophies: boars’ heads, massive elk antlers, bearskins, turkey fans.
    A line of seven tables placed end to end ran down the middle of the great hall. The Corenwalders, dressed in all their finery, were finding seats on the benches that ran down either side of the table. The Errolsons sat with their father near the foot of the table.
    At the head of the room, beneath a massive stained-glass window, was the dais, a raised platform like a long stage running across the width of the room. On the dais sat the table of honor, one very long table made of polished walnut with carved chairs rather than benches. Two dozen wax candles on six golden candelabra provided a bright, clear light that stood in distinct contrast to the murkiness elsewhere in the hall.
    All eyes turned toward the dais when a trumpet flourish rang out above the chatter of the feasters. The guests of honor, the eight members of the Pyrthen delegation, were just entering. They were led by Darrow’s royal steward, a short, round man with a white beard, who showed them to their places, four seats on either side of the middle chair, which was reserved for Darrow himself.
    The Pyrthens were tall and very handsome. They were dressed more or less like the Corenwalders, in silks and satins, with exquisite embroideries and embedded jewels that glistened in the candlelight. But they carried their finery with an elegance that made the Corenwalders’ attempts at imitation seem all the more clownish. Earlier, Aidan had felt embarrassed for having dressed in the old Corenwalder style. Now he was glad that Father had chosen not to ape the Pyrthens’ dress.
    A bugler standing at the edge of the dais sounded a short tucket, and all rose to greet the entering king. Darrow looked splendid, a paragon of Corenwalder manhood. He stood over six feet tall, and even though he was close to sixty, his back was as straight as it had ever been, and his stride as sure. His royal blue robe, embroidered with the golden boar of the House of Darrow, was more ornate thanthe Errolsons’ robes, but not nearly as extravagant as those of the Pyrthens or even the other Corenwalders. A small and simple crown sat on his graying head. His black eyes shone beneath eyebrows that were still as black as they had been in his youth. His silver beard was neatly trimmed along the square line of his jaw, and his lips, though closed, showed the slightest hint of a smile.
    When the king was seated, another trumpet sounded, and the headwaiter entered the room