The night was clear. The stars shone and could even be seen through the light pollution of Mythic City. But that meant it was also cold and the frost crunched under foot as he stepped up to the ledge. He was contemplating how the street lamps illuminated the street far below – uninhabited islands in a stormy sea. A cutting winter wind picked up. He didn’t like how it pushed him toward the precipice. ”Ironic,” he thought.

He had always said he was a lover, not a fighter. Even so, he had been at the assault on Circledell. He had piped such a reel that no changeling that heard his notes knew the fear of death even as the Goblin Knights charged them on their horrific beasts. And though he chanted the beating melody of war, carrying his allies to the point of frenzy as if by the Valkyrie’s horn itself, many did not live to defend Iron Mountain. Perhaps they were the fortunate ones. He had played on: fingers and lips bleeding, lungs heaving, vision swimming behind tears of rage and sorrow.

His reeds tasted of blood when he led the dirge for the Duchy’s fallen. But the tears were spent. His motley was no more, his wife buried, the music silenced. He was not a fighter. His love was dead.

Suddenly there was movement below. His brain scambled to make sense of the dark bulk that rose quickly up out of the shadows. Huge bat wings! Shocked and frightened, he threw up his hands in defense and stumbled back. His feet found no purchase and he fell off the roof ledge. He was too distracted to notice the gravel cutting into his palms or the bruise to his tailbone. He gasped to catch his breath in the tempest that suddenly flooded over the edge of the roof as the leathery thing crested the ramparts. His boots kicked and scraped to propel him away – to escape.

“Squire Lyre?” asked the King of Winter as he touched down lightly on the roof. He shook his umbrella before collapsing it and as he did so the icy crown of office shone like starlight.

“Majesty!?” he gasped.

“I am come to invite you to Court,” said Less formally. He was dressed in Rey’s hedgespun suit and he wanted to be worthy of it.

Squire was reeling with surprise and asked incredulously, “Here?”

The king merely shrugged. “You have not been to Court but I’m sure you know our numbers are limited. I have filled the essential positions: Chancellor, Cofferer, Gaoler, et cetera.”

Squire sat upright and brushed the grit from his hands. “You do me honour, majesty, but I have put away my pipes. You will have to look elsewhere for your Jester.”

“Winter has no call for a Jester, Lyre. The Duchy anticipates the long absent Winter Formal and I need you to put it together. I have secured the appropriate Contracts with Winter, but I need you to secure the location, arrange refreshments, invite the Courts…” He waved his hand. “I’m sure there is much to do and very little time.”

Squire Lyre stared at his king. There was doubt, and perhaps resentment in his eyes.

Less continued. “I want it to occur on February 14 and will expand our usual colour scheme to include red. I want this event to more than just a masquerade of saturnalian proportions. Let Spring or Summer deal with those follies. I want the Formal to celebrate the love we all feel for those we have recently lost. We have had our lonely grieving time. It is time for us to share it with others, to celebrate their lives so that others may understand what precious jewels we exhanged for our freedom. What say you?”

Squire’s eyes darted about but he soon came to his sensed enough to shift to a kneeling bow. “A-as you wish, majesty.”

Less nodded and smiled. Squire remained kneeling. Both became unsure of protocol and they remained awkwardly motionless.

Less gestured with his umbrella, “I’m sure you have better places to be. People to call. And so forth.”

Squire nodded again into a bow and scuffled backwards. He regained his feet and fled to the access door.

Less watched him go and twirled his umbrella. He watched the stars until he heard the door at the street bang open and Squire Lyre run down the pavement. “What do you think, Dub-D? Too much?”

A shadow disengaged itself from behind the structure that housed the door. The hooded Claire stepped forward and joined him at the roof’s edge to survey the city and the stars that stretched to infinity above. The king had begun referring her by an acronym of her new title in the Wardens of the Bleak Seal. The previous Wretched Doorward had retired – urged to, in fact, by the Constable. The trials he had faced from the Goblin King had taken their toll on him. He remained a member emeritus of the Seal and could enjoy the comfort of hot toddies in the wardroom while they traded information. “No, you were very regal.”

“But what about how my british accent comes out when I’m speaking formally? Does it give too much Pompous Ass to the mix?”

Claire was silent a moment. Within her hood, Less could never tell if she was smiling or rolling her eyes at his comments. “I’m sure the Courtiers all expect a certain amount of pomp in the affairs of the Duchy. And I’m sure there is nothing wrong with a bit of ass on a king.”

Less shrugged again, too tired to joust with her further. “And Winterfang?”

“Still under guard, awaiting your judgement.”

Less sighed. Execution would be the easiest and he doubted he would catch much political flak from it in these early days following the war with the Goblin King, but did he have the stomach for it? Banishment would only shift the problem to another Duchy. He didn’t really have the staff nor the funds to maintain a prison. “Anything new regarding this Baba Yaga?”

“Not yet. It is early days. I’m sure he will find his tongue before long.” The Bleak Seal was known for its intelligence-gathering techniques.

An idea was forming in Less’ mind. “Try to find out what Contracts he has made. If he wishes to live, I may have use for someone expendible to prove their loyalty.”

“Yes, your highness.” Less only heard her voice, her body had already faded into the shadows.

Less stepped up on the ledge of the building and took a deep breath of the cool air. The wind could not penetrate his attire and merely seemed to wrap him in a comforting embrace. He had a flash of a forgotten memory: his swan steed bridled for aerial patrol, eclipsed by full, pale lips, the steam of breath.

He started and the vision was gone. He opened his umbrella and swung it over his head. The wind filled his leathery sail and he was content to see where Winter took him in his Kingdom.