Chapter 43: At The King’s Table.

Chapter 43: Chapter 43: At The King’s Table.

"It’s nice to officially meet you, Khobi Frost," he greeted, but the glint in his eyes contrasted sharply with the lightness of his voice, "Rogard. Rogard Spidra."

If he’d been waiting for a reaction to his dramatic reveal, he was sorely disappointed, because not only did this information fly right over Khobi’s head, but a familiar and rather unwelcome face unfortunately chose that moment to make an appearance at the scene and completely stole his thunder.

"...Threatening a guest?" a stony voice abruptly interjected, and Khobi was forced to bite back his own retort as Rogard’s gaze shifted past him, eyes narrowing as they came to rest on the something –or someone, rather –that had chanced upon them. And when Khobi turned, too, he understood why.

(And couldn’t help but share the sentiment, because so far his own encounters with the king’s attendant had been anything but pleasant.)

"How unbecoming," Vogrid mused curtly, looking down his nose at the scene he’d walked in on and poorly masking his distaste for the parties involved.

"I see your manners haven’t improved," he added to Rogard, by way of greeting. The tight smile he received in return was anything but warm.

"Lord Vogrid," Bongo greeted thinly, "To what do we owe the pleasure –"

" –You’re a fine one to talk about manners," Rogard shot back coolly, as though Bongo hadn’t spoken. "...Can’t you see you’re interrupting?"

Vogrid considered this for about two whole seconds before opting to ignore him.

"His Majesty sent me to investigate what was keeping you," he informed Bongo instead, not sounding at all pleased by the delay. "Captain, I hadn’t thought you one to be distracted by such..." He glanced deliberately over the rims of his glasses in Rogard’s direction, "...Trivial things."

Khobii’s eyes narrowed cagily, not liking the tone the guy was taking with Bongo. And he would’ve said as much, and in less pretty words, had the captain not caught the sharp look in his eye and shaken his head,barely a touch off imperceptible.

"Of course," Bongo replied dutifully, though he sounded noticeably more strained than usual as he nudged Khobi back into motion, "Let’s go, Khobi."

Vogrid gave no sign that he’d heard, or cared to hear, instead sparing one last scathing look back at the young lord Spidra, standing indignant at being forgotten some paces behind them.

"...And you, Lord Spidra," he remarked reproachfully, "...Your father would not approve of your being here." By the sounds of things, he shared the sentiment. But clearly his warning had not had the desired effect, because when he turned to leave, Rogard just scoffed at his back.

"You always were so proper," he sniffed, nose wrinkling distastefully. "Who cares if my father approves? Look at you, Lord Vogrid," he simpered, all high-and-mighty and mocking, "Always following orders."

Clearly, it was intended as an insult, and for all his airs it obviously hit its mark, for although Vogrid, stalking on ahead, neither flinched nor hesitated in his stride in the slightest, when he deigned to respond his voice had dropped below freezing.

"I know my place, Rogard," he warned, and that was final. "You best remember yours."

Rogard’s lofty response followed them down the hallway, looking down on them as one might gaze upon a pitiful creature. And when its echo finally faded, the disquiet that took up its place lingered long after he had faded from sight.

" You never were any fun, Vector."

...

He looked uncomfortable, the poor thing.

No wonder –he was, after all, flanked by arguably two of the most intimidating men in all the kingdom.

Captain Bongo was himself an imposing presence –one had to be to have been in her father’s employ for as long as he had –and even if it had not been common knowledge that the Lord Vogrid wasn’t exactly the warmest of companions, it was safe to say that he and Scargga’s young prince hadn’t had the most pleasant of encounters.

And even if her father hadn’t seen fit to send his most formidable retainers to accompany the young man, well, he was still a lost soul in a new world filled with strangers, so it was more than understandable that he should be ill at ease.

And if Xena knew her father, which, unfortunately, she did, then that would suit him just fine. He was, after all, rather partial to watching other men squirm –even more so if by his own doing.

Now that would simply not do. Not this time, because if her father was finally going to treat Prince Khobi like a guest then a guest he would be treated as. And if there was anything Xena had that her father lacked in, it was a proper sense of decorum.

"You’re late –" her father began to announce, no doubt taking a great deal of joy in the way Lord Vogrid’s face pinched. He really shouldn’t tease him so –his family was old and loyal, and (one wouldn’t think it but) their eldest had once been such a gentle child.

But, that was her father. Unfortunately. And if that was how he was going to behave, then she was just going to have to take matters into her own hands. Even if it involved stepping on his toes.

" –Welcome."

Xena knew by now that her father took some secret joy in surprising her. Not in the way that father’s usually surprised their daughters, of course, and not so secret to her eyes –so she figured it only fair that when the opportunity should arise, she was well within her rights to return the favour.

From the look on his face he did not appreciate the interruption, which was absolutely fine by her.

"Captain Bongo, thank you," she continued, rising to her feet with an easy elegance as she addressed their new arrivals, "...For so kindly escorting our guest."

"...Your Highness," the captain replied with a dutiful dip of his head. Xena graced him with a gentle smile –one that turned not a little smug when she turned it on her father, and then back again to address their present company.

"Do excuse my father," she bid with an appropriately apologetic lilt to her voice, "He has a tendency to forget his manners." The reproachful look she sent him was obviously received but unlikely to be taken on board, but no matter.

The prince was watching her now, wary and justifiably mistrustful. "...On his behalf, allow me to finally bid you welcome, Khobi."

It was almost insulting, her father’s subtle smirk of approval. As if she would let something like that escape her notice.

He doesn’t like being called ’Lord’.

"Please, sit with us."

Her tone was gentle –as if to not spook him –and genuine enough, but Khobi still hesitated.

He’d never had much to do with queens –or even princesses, for that matter. Silas had had no wife or daughters, and no woman of high birth whose father had any sense lingered in Briyagi, if they knew what was good for them.

His aunt had been the only queen he’d ever known, and she had been a storm of a woman –a soldier long before she was royalty. She’d been a force to be reckoned with –fiercely loyal, and protective of her own, and with an iron will that rivalled even that of her husband.

This princess could not be more different.

Waiting for him at her father’s table, she didn’t look at all like the kind of woman who stood to inherit a kingdom –let alone rule one.

Clothed in silk, and decorated all in gold, she looked as all noble ladies looked to him, soft, and dainty, and fair –even by noble standards –the kind of pretty prize that any warlord would pay handsomely to wear on his arm.

Standing there, she looked so light and delicate, and with eyes so bright and trusting, that for a fleeting moment Khobi entertained the notion that it would be only so easy to whisk her off her feet and steal her away from her father.

It would be so easy...

He hadn’t said as much, and he was sure his expression had betrayed nothing, but –even though it was impossible –somehow Bongo knew his thoughts, because his grip on Khobi’s shoulder tightened.

"Don’t even think about it," he warned, voice so low Khobi could have sworn he’d imagined it. But spoken he had, and in a tone so harsh and full of ice that it was barely recognisable.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Khobi muttered flatly, but from the way Bongo’s fingers clenched infinitesimally tighter, he wasn’t buying it.

"Her Highness is sweet, and kind," he whispered stonily, "And if you so much as lay a finger on her, you’ll spend the rest of your life praying to be back in Briyagi."

Khobi’s expression darkened.

"Are you threatening me?" he growled lowly, flinging the captain a heated glare. But there was no malice in Bongo’s expression.

"No," he whispered, more serious than Khobi had ever seen him, "I’m warning you."

And then, almost as if nothing had transpired between them, the pressure on Khobi’s shoulder evaporated, and he found himself being gently, but undeniably firmly, nudged towards the table and the king who sat at it.

"Now go," he urged, the ice melting away from his voice, "They’re waiting for you."

All eyes in the room tracked him as he crossed the room. He could feel the guards present stiffen as he approached their king, and heard them breathe again when he sank into the seat laid out for him without event.

The princess, whether by ignorance or choice, seemed not to notice the palpable tension in the air, and greeted him with a smile and an outstretched hand.

He didn’t take it. And when he sat, he made certain that the chair legs scraped across the stone floor as obstinately, and as obnoxiously loud as possible.

(Having taken up residence against the grandest door in the chamber, Bongo let out a heavy sigh.)

"Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?" the king remarked dryly, as soon as Khobi had settled into his seat and the grating echo of wood across stone had finally faded. He was smiling, but there was a noticeable absence of warmth that did little to curb Khobi’s obvious trepidation.

"I’m glad you decided to accept my invitation," he continued, and at a gesture a servant materialised at his side to pour him a fresh cup of tea. Others –faceless and silent –as if responding to some cue, began pouring out from the eaves bearing plates laden with food and pitchers filled to the brim with wine.

But the king ignored them as they worked, tirelessly (thanklessly) laying out the table and piling it high with food so fresh and delicious smelling that it was only moments until Khobi’s mouth is watering.

Instead, he just sipped at his tea, and smiled the kind of smile that experience had taught him was worn most by the kinds of men that were not to be trusted.

"After all," he mused, a sly glint taking up residence in his eyes, "I would hate to think there were any hard feelings between us."

It was a smile that was full of secrets.

And Khobi didn’t like it one bit.