The Evening Hall was situated on the third floor of the western wing of her citadel, three lovely windows of rock crystal provided a breathtaking view of the valley and the foothills further west. Fires burned merrily in both of the fireplaces, the fragrant hardwood gave the hall of cozy feeling. Her minstrels played quietly from a small alcove along the eastern wall. Igma’s guests chatted with each other and those of her court Yehmeera had selected to attend. She observed for a while from a hidden alcove near the stairs.

All of them, except Ijah, had worn the clothing provided to them by her servitors. Ijah was dressed in garments she had brought herself, and having been given the chance to talk with Yehmeera, was so engaged. All but the half orc were likewise immersed, their selected dining companions meant to elicit comfort, curiosity and conversation. Osran seemed disinterested in conversing with Aphia Den’Esqua and despite a number of attempts to engage the halfblood, her cavalier had yet to draw the other woman out. Both Aphia and Osran were drinking, perhaps the wine would help loosen reticent lips.

Igma slowly descended the stairs, conversations were dropped. She had the attention of all her guests. She paused briefly, two thirds of the way down, where lamps and the light from the fireplace back-lit her. She smiled, “I’m glad to see everyone getting along so well. We shall feast, enjoy some fine music and other entertainments. Be at ease this evening, indulge.”

She gracefully completed her descent and took her place at the head of the table. A dozen servitors paraded in, placed the first course along with additional beverages, removed emptied dishes and quietly paraded out. One servitor remained to attend Igma, the others served themselves. Quiet conversation resumed but more attention was given the delicious soup, grilled snails and bitter tarts that comprised the first course.

Throughout the meal her minstrels played, between the courses various other members of her court came to entertain them with poetry, agile displays of acrobatics and dance, illusionary images summoned to delight or impress. Young Berri was thoroughly thrilled with the evening. Osran enjoyed the food and drink though she remained withdrawn from casual conversation. Lady Roddarra was at her ease, familiar with such extravagance. Walker clearly appreciated the feast, he remained guarded. Ijah was polite but there remained an expectant tension within her. Igma watched and listened, learning what she could of her guests.

The final course was brought to the table, a rich cream cake with cocoa, topped with fresh berries and a sprinkling of one of Igma’s favourite aphrodisiacs. Berri exclaimed, “What is this?”

Igma smiled at the young woman’s wonder, “My cook calls it the Goddess Flower. It is a cream cake.”

“It’s too pretty to eat.”

Osran sniffed it, “Not bread.” She scooped it up with her fingers and popped it in her mouth. After a moment she nodded with enthusiasm, “Taste better than it looks, Berri.”

During this exchange Yehmeera excused herself, departing from the hall as her musicians prepared for their final performance of the evening. Igma gradually dimmed the level of light in the room as the dessert was enjoyed. Ijah set her fork down after having eaten only a couple modest bites of her cake. The Kereshi noticed the change of lighting, she appeared frustrated, impatient, perhaps on the verge of loosing her temper.

When the first few notes of the piece Yehmeera had chosen to dance to started, she looked around, her expression one of curiosity. The music eventually drew everyone’s attention and an anticipatory quiet settled over the room. Yehmeera stepped out of the shadows, elegant and beautiful, she slowly danced around the table with graceful precision, drawing gazes.

The music increased in tempo ever so slightly, Yehmeera slowly circled the table again, in the other direction. When she reached Ijah, she tried to encourage her fellow Kereshi to rise and join her in the dance. Ijah waved her off. Yehmeera moved on.

Another slight increase in tempo, the dancer circled back around the table, adding layers of complexity to the dance. Igma noticed Berri squirming in her seat, when the dancer moved past the halfblood, Osran commented, “She look more tasty than cream cake.” The was some quiet laughter from most of the others.

After the third pass around the table, Yehmeera stopped at the far end from where Igma sat, the music stopped, a long veil slid to the floor exposing the dancer’s arms and midriff. The first drum solo started, keeping the established tempo. The dancer moved through a series of layered isolations. The other musicians joined back in, increasing the tempo again, the dancer flowed around the table.

Ijah stood up, pushing her chair back too quickly. She grabbed her goblet as the chair toppled over and pitched the crystal glass in the general direction of the musicians. The chair clattered to the floor, one of the musicians cried out and ducked aside, knocking over another performer. The goblet shattered, spraying wine and fine cut stone into the musician’s alcove. The music stopped. Ijah glared at Igma. Yehmeera stopped, took a moment to understand what had happened, then stormed out of the hall. She gave Ijah a murderous look.

Igma took a long slow breath, then stood, regarding Ijah coolly.

The other woman’s voice cracked with anger, “I know what you are doing!”

Igma dared not speak.

Ijah continued, “All of these luxuries and attention are nothing more than a distraction.” She reached into a fold in her garments and withdrew the message from the Swampdon Council. “People have died so that we could get this to you. Many more people are dying everyday in the battles around Swampdon.” Ijah walked over to her, the message raised between them, “There is business to attend to, sorceress. No more games.” She slapped the letter on the table in front of Igma.

She almost laughed. No one had talked to her like that in a very long time. She composed herself, picked up the message as she glared back at Ijah, “I’ll let you know my decision after I’ve had some time to meditate on the contents. Court dismissed.” She turned, exiting the hall.

She returned to her tower, her emotion tumultuous. It had been a long time since she had been angry, even longer since someone had dared to express their anger towards her so plainly. Little-Leaf observed her from the seat by her vanity, concerned by her mistress’ manic pacing.

Igma glared at the letter she was holding, marched up to her study and placed it within a small pentagram she used when she was investigating newly found grimoires. She left it unopened and looked around, at a loss as to how she should occupy herself.

Little-Leaf came up into the room, sat and watched her mistress.

Igma ungraciously demanded, “What?”

Your supper did not go as planned?

“Obviously.”

That is sad, I know you like your little parties.

“That woman has a very high opinion of herself.”

That is a common thing around here.

She glared at the cat. Little-Leaf licked a paw then started grooming behind one of her ears. You should give me pats.

“Can you believe the audacity of her? Accusing me of playing games, while she sits at my table, eating my food. She totally ruined Yehmeera’s performance, assaulted my minstrels! I aught to teach her a lesson about respecting guest rights. Imagine, coming to my house, seeking my aid and demanding I attended her in a more timely fashion. I should send them packing, turn the lot of them out. Send her back to the council without a reply. Maybe I’ll age her a couple decades while I’m at it, saggy tits and aching limbs would teach her some manners. Bloody brute!”

Little-Leaf butted her head into Igma’s shin. Pats.

The sorceress sighed, her frustration ebbing somewhat. She sat on the floor and pet her familiar for a long while. Content, the cat settled beside her and purred. They remained so engaged for some time.

“Well, I should take a look at that damnable letter.” Little-Leaf looked at her then stretched. Igma sat at her desk to investigate the message. Little-Leaf hopped up onto the desk, sat and observed her mistress as she worked.

The letter and its seal contained only a single enchantment, a simple spell meant to dissuade anyone but her from opening the message. She picked it up, wondering if she should not just set it aside. Her association with Swampdon was from a time long passed, much had happened since. Surely those she had known were gone. As distant memories surfaced she broke the seal, unfolding the fine quality paper.

She immediately recognized the handwriting, her heartbeat jumped and she felt a flush of surprise pass through her. Meridak still lived! She was overcome with distant memories of a time she had not thought about for many decades. She had been so young and arrogant in those days, so sure of herself and the path she had chosen. In love, secure in her circle of friends. Then there had been betrayal and heartbreak. Everything had changed.

It took her a few moments to pull herself from those memories. She took deep breaths and willed herself to a semblance of composure. The letter was short and to the point; Meridak had summarized the situation with the war, briefly described the hordes of undead that the Tannican priests were raising from the battle fields and begged her for assistance. He closed with an admission that perhaps Igma had been correct all along, that the council had overreacted.

She placed the letter within the pentagram and sat back in her chair. Little-Leaf watched her intently. She explored her feelings, trying to ignore the imperfect memories that kept bubbling up. She wondered if she should leave her sanctuary to aid Swampdon.