A Messenger Arrives in a Distant Land
He felt the stares of his fellow bar patrons burning his back and sighed mentally. A few years ago, he would not have dared to enter such an establishment, nor would he have suffered their ignorant gazes, but it had been so very long since he had first awoken to his grotesque form he supposed that over time he must have grown accustomed to his appearance and even the reactions it elicited.
He placed his empty wooden flagon down on the table and smacked his lips as the last of the bitter mix of milk, cinnamon, and mead lingered in his mouth. Since arriving in the foreign land of Selsa he had learned quickly how heavily the men of the Outer World relied on the effects of inebriants. Nearly every drink and many dishes called upon some form of alcohol in their making; a reflection on the standard of living with which the vast majority of humanity in this land scraped along. And it was for that reason that he could forgive their rudeness.
“Zelgadis Greywords?” Zelgadis looked up from the flagon, surprised to hear his own name, and was even more surprised to discover who had said it. The boy standing across the table from him appeared to be about sixteen or seventeen years of age, with straw-colored hair and a guileless face. More interestingly, emblazoned on the front of his white tunic was the seal of the Royal House of Seyruun.
He gave a short nod in affirmation and the boy’s face seemed to flood with relief. Zelgadis surmised that the boy was a squire, and finding a chimera in the Outer World had probably been his first duty of any mild importance.
“Master Greywords, your presence has been request–”
“Don’t waste your breath on that script of yours.” The boy seemed surprised to have been interrupted and he dropped his stiff, court posture. “Amelia and I came to an understanding months ago, and you can tell her when you go back that if she can’t hold to her end of the agreement, I won’t bother with mine.”
The boy had been unseated, but Zelgadis’s words just seemed to confuse him more.
“But–” the boy struggled to find words to correct Zelgadis without offending him. “M-master Greywords . . . Uh, I wasn’t sent by Her Highness, Princess Amelia Wil Tesla Seyruun.”
“You weren’t?” A thread of worry crept into the back of Zelgadis’s mind.
“N-no.” The squire assumed his professional posture again, seemingly finding confidence in the resumption of his practiced script. “His Highness and Regent, Prince Christopher el de Seyruun requests your presence and magical expertise during this, Seyruun’s most trying ordeal.”
“‘Seyruun’s most trying ordeal?’ What are you talking about? What’s happened?!” Zelgadis leapt from his seat and leaned across the table to the blonde boy, who seemed startled by his reaction. It was then that Zelgadis realized that he had referred to Christopher as “regent,” which spiked his worry. “What’s happened to Phil?!”
The boy looked up at him with wide brown eyes filled with naïve disbelief. “Y-you mean you haven’t heard?”
Zelgadis sat back down and coldly stared down the boy. “Talk.”