(61) Almost Familial

Bernard stood rooted in place, his eyebrows raised as high as they could go. Before him was the Nephthys he knew, but also someone completely different.

The woman on the throne sat with one leg crossed over the other, her arms folded in front of her. Her skin was pale, with a slight purple hue, and criss-crossed with what seemed cracks, as if her form were a shell hiding the night sky within.

Her hair was the length and shape that Bernard knew, but its color traced a gradient from black at the roots to purple at the ends, matching her claw-like nails. Her ears were long, sharp, and poking through her hair. A halo of stars whirred over her head, each a different color, each twinkling as if grabbed straight from the starfield above.

She gazed at him with that familiar neutral expression, but this time it held something more. Perhaps it was the pressure of the setting, perhaps Bernard was unnerved by all the demons, or perhaps it was a combination of many things, but he felt an invisible weight in the gaze. It pressed his shoulders down and threatened to forcibly bend his knees if he did not do so voluntarily.

Without knowing what the proper etiquette expected of him was, and with the sudden realization that his gawking had gone on for an uncomfortably long time, Bernard put his fist across his chest, bent his head, and dropped to a kneel. Before his knee could hit the ground, however, he was interrupted.

“Stop,” Nephthys commanded, halting Bernard and his retinue, who mirrored his actions, mid-bow. “None of that, please.”

Looking up from his bow, Bernard nearly jumped, discovering Nephthys standing before him, not three feet away. She had moved in a blink and without sound, which was not unusual for high-level individuals, but Bernard was one of them, and that he had not detected her movement spoke volumes.

“I presume our…‘necessary formalities’ have been properly observed?” she asked, throwing a look at Ramose, who merely nodded, though Bernard thought the nod symbolic of concession rather than agreement.

He was tempted to chuckle. If he was reading the situation correctly and Nephthys’ previous personality during her visits with him had not been a fabrication, he suspected she did not enjoy this pomp and circumstance, which Bernard could relate to. That said, if he had been so prickly with his chamberlain during a public and important event, Lamorak would tan his hide the instant the guests departed.

“Let us move to lunch,” Nephthys declared.

Bernard was surprised, as the invitation had not mentioned dining, but before he could even open his mouth to voice a question, the room shifted. Suddenly, he and his host were standing in an elaborately decorated dining room.

It was wood-paneled, though the paneling was clearly fastened atop dark, thick stone. It was cleverly used to add depth to the room, the wooden panels absent in some places to create niches and recesses for various trinkets, banners, and artwork.

A round, finely-carved table of the same wood as the audience hall doors dominated the center of the room, with dozens of chairs arranged around it. Each chair was carved in a peculiar, but exquisite, image of snakes. The arm rests were the serpents’ heads, the legs their tails, and the backs their intertwined bodies.

Each chair had a thick cushion tied to its seat, and the cushions’ colors complemented the rug beneath. This rug, unlike the plush carpet in the audience hall, was thinner, with fibers more tightly woven, though it was far more ornate to compensate.

Images of a colorful vista were braided into its threads, creating the effect of the chair-snakes rising from the colorful rug background, as if emerging from a painting.

Bernard thought it a detail that spoke highly of Nemesis’ decorator. Whoever had created this room, this scene, had paid attention to even the most minute details.

He was ushered without a word to the table and, as expected, positioned next to Nephthys, while the rest of his people arranged themselves on either side.

Strangely, the seating arrangements appeared to be alternating, one of Bernard’s people, an empty seat, and then another of Bernard’s people. It was peculiar, as if they were spacing his people out to fill the table rather than simply removing the extra chairs.

Before he could ponder further, a door across the room slammed open, and an enormous upright bull—no, a man?—entered. He carried a great platter in each hand, silver cloches covering them. He strode over to the table confidently, a wide smile on his face.

“Theron is excited to cook for outsiders,” Nephthys whispered.

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen! I’m Theron, the chef for Nemesis, and I’ve prepared a feast for you all! However, there may be level discrepancies among us, so to avoid poisoning anyone with food that is too high-level, please hold up your fingers to indicate which of the following groups you belong to.

“One finger for levels zero to one hundred, two fingers for 101 to 200, three fingers for 201 to 300, and four fingers if you are beyond 300!” he called.

Bernard held up three fingers, confused. Why would there be an option for above 300? Bernard was old, by most measures, and he had been around. He was just shy of level 250, and that accomplishment had taken his entire life and countless struggles on the most dangerous continent in the world.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He resisted a chuckle as he saw Gregsa hold up three fingers with obvious pride, his face practically glowing. The man had just crossed the 200 brink, so the unexpected opportunity to boast was probably welcome.

“Right, right, okay. I think I’ve got it. Thank you for your attention, everyone! As I said, my name is Theron, and it is a pleasure to cook for you today—chef for you today, I mean,” Theron declared, setting the two platters on the table and retreating to, presumably, the kitchen.

Bernard began to wonder whether this operation would be self-serve when the doors on either side of the room burst open, a gaggle of people in various states of dress rushing in.

Some wore what he would describe as finery, while others were garbed in loose-fitting robes and linen garments. He could find no other explanation for the disparity in dress than each individual dressing as they preferred. That would not normally be strange, but the current circumstances, a formal dinner, made it so.

“Baron Buchanan, let’s see…you held up three fingers, right? Okay, let me get this for you!” a woman said, reading from a little card.

She ran over toward the dishes, removing the cloche on one to reveal a platter piled high with delicacies: roasted meat, visibly steaming, vegetables, grilled and arranged around it, soups, salads, bread, and almost any sort of dish he could imagine lay in steaming splendor.