Chapter 66 – The Uninvited Tea

  Lord Eldric stood, watching out the tall windows of his office, his gaze set upon the eastern road, where dust curled like a warning in the late sun. His gift stirred—a pressure, subtle but insistent, like the weight of a hand upon the back of his neck. A presence was coming, one that did not belong to Avalon.

  A pounding fist upon the door announced the scout before his voice carried through.

  “My lord!” the rider barked, still breathless from the gallop. “A column approaches—soldiers and priests. They bear no colors, no banners, yet boldly traverse the valley.”

  Eldric turned, his face hardening. “A non-aligned force,” he said, more to himself than the scout. The unease of his gift flared hotter, sharper. “They should not be here.”

  He crossed the room in two strides. “Ride to the captain at once. Tell him to ready the men and stand prepared to secure the manor on my command. Go.”

  The scout bowed sharply, then fled down the hall, boots hammering against the stone. Eldric’s hand tightened upon the hilt at his hip. Already, he could feel the storm gathering.

  The eastern road.

  The uninvited moved like a spear through the valley: soldiers grim and armored, priests cloaked in black and white. At their head a carriage with a figure with eyes pale as milk, the White-Eyed Man. His gait was one of command, his chin high, lips curled faintly as though the very air bent to his will. Arrogance clung to him like a mantle.

  When the manor gates rose before them, its guards stepped forward in ordered ranks, spears braced against the ground.

  The White-Eyed Man did not pause. He raised a pale hand, and his voice carried like a clarion.

  Off to your master, he commanded, his voice flavored with contempt, "and tell him that His Holiness has arrived. Demand an immediate audience with Lord Eldric.".

  The guards didn't budge, their gazes unflinching. One answered, voice chill and even.

  You will remain here until the lord commands your passage.

  The White-Eyed Man's jaw tightened. The priests behind him spat in disgust.

  To invoke the Order and see no fear, no shaking knees—it was almost unthinkable. Yet the guards were unyielding, steady, refusing to flinch at the implied threat of eternal damnation. His voice sharpened like drawn steel.

  “You presume much, soldier. The Order’s authority—”

  The guards’ hands dropped as one to their hilts. Metal rasped against leather.

  The White-Eyed Man froze, not in fear but in measured fury. His pale eyes narrowed, and for a heartbeat it seemed he might press the point. But then he stilled, lips curling into the faintest sneer. He said no more.

  Up in the manor’s high office, the news landed heavy, sending ripples through the room where three people sat.

  "Priests," Lady Seraphine spat, her voice sharp as glass. She was beside Eldric, her dark eyes blazing. "Why today? It has only been hours since he left the manor. And how, in all the veils, did they manage to find their way into the valley?"

  Eldric paced the room's length, his broad shoulders churning with anger. "Only if they skipped the border guard. They failed to pay the required tribute. They rode the length of the valley like wolves, beneath the cover of night." He paused, his hands clenched with barely controlled anger. "They will demand admission!”

  “They will demand hospitality!" His tone dropped lower, a mutter to himself. “I only pray the remnant has truly faded.”

  “No,” Lady Seraphine said. Her voice cut clean through the air, ringing with the quiet authority that could still even Eldric’s temper. “We will not grant them the battleground they seek.”

  Eldric and Aldric both turned to her. “And what would you have us do, Seraphine? If we turn them away, they might hunt Caelen,” Eldric stated.

  She lifted her chin. “We delay and force their hand. We will meet them in the garden. For tea.”

  Aldric blinked, caught between disbelief and admiration. “Tea?”

  “You need to learn that wars can be fought with all weapons, tea most of all!” she stated. “All of them, at once,” Seraphine continued, her tone hardening into command. “And all of us—together. No whispered councils, no private bargains. They will look upon the family united, and they will find no cracks to worm through.”

  Her gaze swept across them, keen as a blade. “This is our land and our laws. The orders have no authority here, no base. We also have the king’s findings, his writ, and his seal. With those, we will rid ourselves of these uninvited guests swiftly—and without them gaining anything they seek.”

  Eldric’s jaw eased, and after a moment, he gave a single, firm nod. His gift still pressed upon him, heavy and restless, but Seraphine’s plan had the ring of truth.

  “So be it,” he said. “Let them drink their bitter tea in our garden. But if they pay the Tribute of Standing, they will be allowed to stay.”

  “If they all pay,” voiced Aldric.

  …

  The garden of Avalon was no gentle meadow, but a deliberate show of wealth and order. Hedges cut to perfection framed walkways of pale stone, clear fountains murmured, and late-blooming daisies added their fragrance to the crisp air.

  It was there, beneath the shade of marble columns, that Lord Eldric and Lady Seraphine awaited their guests, their two children seated near, and the household staff hovered in silence like shadows.

  When the priests and soldiers entered, their black and white robes seemed almost out of place against the order of comfort and blossoms, stark shadows amid the sea of color. The White-Eyed Man moved at their head with unhurried grace, his presence heavy yet deceptively cordial, the late autumn heat carrying the weight of his voice as he spoke.

  “Lord Eldric,” he intoned smoothly, pale eyes gliding over the gathered Avalons before fixing upon their host. A faint smile touched his lips, one that chilled more than it warmed. “How fortunate we are. His Holiness graces your home, and you, in turn, receive him as is proper.”

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  He lifted a languid hand, and the soldiers and lesser priests bowed in unison. He alone remained upright, spine unbending, as though courtesy itself need not apply to him.

  “Your garden is lovely,” he added after a pause, the words threaded with a measured gentleness that carried an edge all its own. “Quite so—especially for a place so far upon the fringe of the kingdom. A rare beauty in such… humble soil.”

  Eldric inclined his head, measured and cold. “You stand unbidden upon Avalon soil. Yet hospitality is our custom.” He gestured to the stone table where cups of silver gleamed. “Sit, and take tea.”

  The White-Eyed Man’s lips curled faintly, almost in mockery, but he descended into the chair opposite Lord Eldric. His priests and soldiers stayed near in a circle behind him, though unease lingered in their eyes.

  Lady Seraphine poured the tea herself, her movements graceful, her poise unshaken. The liquid shimmered as it filled the cups, fragrant steam curling upward. She set the last cup before the White-Eyed Man and met his gaze with calm defiance.

  “You entered our lands without tribute,” she said, her tone sharp beneath its honey. “You creep past the border watch, unannounced, uninvited. And even demand our hospitality. Such manners ill befit holy men.” Her words, wrapped in the silk of courtesy, but every syllable carried the sharp edge of accusation.

  A murmur passed among the Avalon guards stationed nearby.

  The White-Eyed Man lifted his cup, his pale eyes never leaving hers. “We answer to a higher call than your toll-keepers and wardens. The Order needs no coin to walk where it wills. We come bearing divine authority, and with it, the right to judge.”

  Aldric leaned forward, his young voice like steel drawn from a sheath. “Then judge yourselves first, for it seems pride blinds you more than our valley does.”

  A flicker passed across the White-Eyed Man’s face—surprise, perhaps, or insult quickly mastered. He placed his untouched cup upon the table with deliberate care.

  “You confuse boldness with wisdom, boy. The Order does not ask permission of noble children.”

  The White-Eyed Man's pale eyes fixed on Aldric, his voice smooth, even affable, yet never dropping that tone of contempt beneath. "Nevertheless, young lord, our Order does understand the respect due," he said, as one explaining manners to a child. "And I have come to pay it."

  Aldric's eyes flicked from the priest to the dark-robed entourage behind him. His voice was calm, but carried an edge of expectation, “Very well.”

  At the signal, two of the lesser priests stepped forward. With slow deliberation, they counted thirty silver coins, one by one, placing them upon the table with deliberate care, from their small purses. The coins gleamed in the sunlight, each clinking loudly against the hush of the garden.

  Eldric allowed himself a small smile, his humor not diminishing the weight of his words. “As your Order sponsors nothing in our realm—no churches, no abbeys, no hermitages—you are entitled only to the tribute of standing. And so you have paid.” His eyes narrowed slightly, though his tone remained measured. “Therefore, I expect each and every other one of you—priests, guards, and servants alike—to be gone from my lands before the fall of night. You will find a ship in the town of Avalon and sail north.”

  The White-Eyed Man stiffened, the faintest crack in his composure. His pale eyes widened with surprise.

  “But we have paid your tribute,” he said, voice harder now, a faint tremor beneath the polished calm.

  “You seem to misunderstand,” Aldric replied, his words precise, almost judicial. “The tribute of standing is per person. We make no distinction between priest or guard, servant or master. This was defined and declared in open council. Thirty coins are but the beginning of your company's debt.”

  The silence that followed was heavy, as though the blossoms themselves bent under its weight.

  The priest's eyes iced for a heartbeat before his body shifted, subtle but unsettling—his head tilting, his neck coiling, his movements fluid and sharp, as though some serpent stirred beneath his skin. His lips peeled into something between a smile and a snarl, teeth flashing white against the shadow of his hood.

  “Blasphemy,” he hissed, his voice still carrying that cultivated smoothness, but now laced with venom. “You dare call the servants of the True Order to account, as though we were common merchants paying tariffs on your little docks?” His pale gaze darted over the coins with contempt, then back to Aldric, unblinking, predatory.

  He took a half-step forward, shoulders rippling beneath his robes. “Know this, boy—our Order has the right to tread anywhere within this kingdom, to speak the word of His Holiness, to cleanse what festers. That authority is beyond your writ, beyond your border stones, beyond your petty decrees. We go where we will, do as we please, for the good of all.”

  His voice deepened, rolling like distant thunder, though the smile never left his lips. “And you—” he drew out the word, his head cocking sharply, “—are overstepping what little inheritance has been tossed into your hands.”

  The priests behind him shifted uneasily, as though his anger carried a weight that pressed on even them.

  “Your view and ours do not align,” Seraphine cut in, her tone silken but sharp as a blade. “But it does bow to the Kings.”

  With the weight of drawing a weapon from the pocket of her gown, she drew forth a scroll, its crimson seal already broken, and she laid it flat upon the table. The emblem of the crown gleamed in the sunlight, undeniable.

  “By decree of His Majesty,” she said, her voice carrying across the garden, “no Order priest, no soldier in their company, may claim authority within Avalon. Whatever you think your rights were, they are suspended; your presence permitted only at our sufferance. You will finish your tea, and then you will leave this house.”

  The White-Eyed Man’s hand hovered near the parchment, but he did not touch it. His pale eyes narrowed, and the arrogance in his voice sharpened to a brittle edge.

  “You dare… speak thus to His Holiness?”

  Eldric rose slowly, towering above the table, his shadow long against the stones. “I Dare?” he said, his voice deep and iron-bound with danger. “I am the Lord of Avalon! This house heeds the crown, honor, and nobility. You, priest, obey nothing but your own appetites.”

  The guards’ hands drifted toward their blades, the priests stiffened, and for a heartbeat, the garden held its breath. The White-Eyed Man’s fury smoldered in his gaze, but the seal on the table bound him as no sword could.

  At last, with a voice like poisoned silk, he said, “We shall drink your bitter tea. But this matter is not ended.”

  And as he raised the silver cup to his lips, Lady Seraphine smiled faintly, as though the game were already won.

  The priest’s eyes were like twin moons — white, wide, and burning with that pale, unnatural light that comes when a man has gone too far into his god’s fury.

  “Hold your tongue, priest,” Lady Seraphine said quietly, her voice steady as still water.

  But he did not.

  “You speak of honor, you silken carrion?” His voice cracked like old iron under strain. “You drape yourself in purity while your House rots beneath the smile of your children. You think your name sanctified? You think your hearth blessed?”

  He lifted both hands, fingers twisted into sigils older than the circlet upon her head. “Then by the Hollow Word of our Vane, I cast you unto remembrance and grief—let your bloodline bear your shame!”

  A wind screamed through the garden. The plants and banners flared as a cold wind struck; servants, guards, and even the priest behind the man bowed in terror.

  “Malefic Influence!” he roared — invoking the Curse that blackens the favor of all who touch the afflicted.

  The hall shuddered — plants bent low, banners twisted, and cold wind swept through the stones. But then, just as suddenly, the fury stopped.

  The air grew still. The plants straightened. The echo of his words vanished, as if swallowed by the walls themselves.

  Lady Seraphine stood unmoved, her eyes calm, her shawl untouched by the wind. A faint light seemed to linger about her, not bright, but living — soft and golden like dawn through mist.

  The priest’s breath caught. “What is this?” he hissed. “No curse fails when I name the Word!”

  Seraphine’s voice was quiet. “Because this House was not raised by man alone,” she said. “The Veils themselves set its stones and blessed its line. Their favor still stands, priest. Your curse finds no hold here.”

  The priest stumbled back, pale, as a faint hum filled the air — the resonance of something ancient and unseen, like a choir without sound. The stones beneath her feet glowed faintly, veins of silver tracing patterns older than any tongue could describe.

  He tried to speak again, but his voice broke. “You— you hide behind false sanctity!”

  “No,” Seraphine said softly. “We stand within it.”

  “You mistake sorrow for guilt, priest,” she said softly, though her face had gone white.

  And with that, the white-eyed servant of the gods turned and stalked into the night, leaving only the echo of his curse — and the chill of something old that took notice.