The Vampire & Her Witch

Marcel led the two guild masters through the heavy oaken doors of the Gilded Horns, which swung open on silent hinges to reveal an interior that rivaled the grandeur of any noble’s hall in Lothian March, perhaps even exceeding the opulence on display in the halls of the western barons closest to demon-occupied territories.

The common dining area sprawled before them, its high-beamed ceiling supported by massive timber pillars carved with scenes of legendary hunts and battles against demons with thin layers of gold leaf applied to the horns of horned demons, the claws of clawed demons or any other defining feature of the myriad types of demons who plagued the frontier. The display didn’t escape Master Tiernan’s discerning eye, who carefully noted that any feature of the carving that had been covered in gold leaf was a treasure the Church would pay a hefty bounty for.

A great hearth dominated the far wall, large enough to roast an entire ox, its dancing flames casting long shadows across the rush-strewn floor interspersed with fresh-cut herbs that released their fragrance with each step guests and servants took across the wide open space.

The aroma mingled with the rich scents of roasted meats, freshly baked bread, and spices so expensive they were normally only available to the nobility in the frontier. Cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg brought at great expense from the old countries across the sea tantalized the nose along with fresher herbs of tarragon and thyme.

All around the room, merchants and wealthy tradesmen rubbed elbows with accomplished demon hunters at heavy oak tables draped with fine linen cloths. Servants in the establishment’s colors, midnight blue and gold, moved with practiced efficiency between kitchen and tables, bearing enormous platters laden with autumn’s bounty.

At one table, a whole roasted turkey had been reassembled in its plumage, its flesh arranged on a bed of turnips, parsnips, and apples glazed with honey. At another, a suckling pig turned slowly on a spit, its skin crackling and glistening with fat as a server carved slices for eager guests.

In the corner of the room on a raised wooden platform, a trio of musicians plucked gently at their instruments, filling the air with the faint music of harps and a citole that looked to be as old and well cared for as the Gilded Horn itself.

A grand staircase of polished walnut rose along the western wall, its banisters adorned with more of the gilded horns that gave the establishment its name. Each step was covered in plush carpeting imported from the eastern duchies, a luxury that muffled footfalls and proclaimed the owner’s reach and connections more clearly than any herald.

The staircase split at a landing halfway up, one branch leading to a gallery overlooking the common room, the other continuing upward to the third floor where private dining chambers offered discretion for more sensitive conversations.

”This way, if you please,” Marcel said, gesturing toward the staircase. ”The finest wines are reserved for the upper chambers, and I’ve taken the liberty of arranging a meal that I believe will suit your discerning palates.”

”You’re going a long way to impress a simple smith,” Master Tiernan said as he ascended the stairs, carefully inspecting the craftsmanship of everything from the polished banister to the gilded candelabras hanging from the rafters.

He’d visited the Guild Halls and manors of plenty of men who plastered gold leaf over shoddy work in an attempt to appear prosperous, but what he saw in the precisely riveted fittings and smoothly polished woodwork spoke of an attention to detail rarely found outside the halls of counts and dukes.

”You’re important people who have come a long way to visit this lonely corner of the frontier,” Marcel said smoothly, bowing slightly as he ushered them into a small dining room hung with rich tapestries depicting ancient mist-filled forests and grand waterfalls along the river Luath. One wall even held an oil painting depicting a demon fortress wreathed in flames behind an army flying banners of the Lothian family and the Templars of the Church.

Marcel studdied their reactions to the artwork carefully, noticing the way Tiernan seemed more interested in the subtle, natural beauty of the misty forest while Isabell’s eyes seemed to have become caught on the painting, flickering over countless details that felt far too accurate to have been accidental.

”This painting,” Isabell said when she could no longer hold back her curiosity. ”How, how old is it and which master painted it?” she asked, moving to stand directly before it and adjusting her silver rimmed spectacles as she examined everything from the orderly arrangement of the invading army to the crumbling walls broken by the miracle workers of the Church. Even the roads leading away from the burning fortress town were meticulously drawn in, dotted with tiny figures of demons fleeing the carnage to the hills beyond.

”I cannot name the painter,” Marcel said slowly. ”But the painting dates to the reign of Cellach Lothian, and the painter is said to have borne witness to this battle. Whether it’s true or not, I cannot say,” he said with a helpless shrug.

”It’s a bit sad to look at over a meal,” Tiernan said, definitively choosing a seat that placed his back to the painting. ”I prefer this one,” he said, pointing at the tapestry of the misty forest on the opposite wall. ”Somewhere quiet.”

”You chose a strange profession for someone who prefers the quiet, my friend,” Master Isabell said as she pulled herself away from her examination of the exquisitely detailed painting to take a seat next to the burly iron monger, choosing to angle herself in a way that let her observe both the misty forest and the churning waters of the river Lauth.

”I prefer the quiet because of my profession,” Tiernan said, tapping the side of his shaven head just in front of his ear. ”Too many years, too many hammers on anvils and too many clattering chains. A foundry is a noisy place,” he told their youthful-looking host. ”But maybe one day soon I’ll have a place like that to call my own,” he said, pointing a thick, sausage-like finger at the tapestry.

”I’m sure that one day you will,” Marcel said with a knowing smile and a twinkle in his eye as he took his seat at the table, ringing a bell to signal the staff that they were ready to be served. ”I hope you’ll pardon me for the small talk while we wait for our meal,” he said, taking a crystal decanter of fragrant red wine from the table and filling each of their goblets. ”The things we have to discuss tonight, they aren’t for most ears to hear, even in a place like this.”

Before either master could respond to his statement, the doors on the opposite side of the private room opened, revealing a narrow hallway and several servants bearing platters piled high with spit roasted boar sitting on a bed of cabbage leaves wrapped around balls of ground meat and nuts, a steaming pot filled with rich, creamy rabbit stew, and several individual pies stuffed with either sweet fruit preserves or savory roasted vegetables.

”There are only two of us, Mister Marcel,” Isabell said as the stream of servants continued bringing in even more dishes until the table was almost completely covered with enough food to feed a dozen men Master Tiernan’s size. ”Or do you mean to tell me that you have a young man’s appetite to eat for three grown men? My youngest just grew out of that stage a few years ago...”

”Oh, I just like to nibble on a little of everything,” Marcel said, wishing for the dozenth time that he could bring the cooks of the Gilded Horn back to the Vale of Mists to study Georg’s method of cooking small portions for vampires who only ate for the joy of a flavor and had no need of food for sustenance. For now, it was a distant dream, but if Lady Ashlynn had her way, that might change.

”If you only have one thing, then may I suggest the Rainbow Trout?” Marcel said, pointing at a platter with two fillets of tender, flaky fish nestled between the preserved head and tail of the fish.

”Lady Ashlynn seemed to take quite a liking to it the last time we dined together,” he said, carefully watching the faces of the guild masters for their reaction.

”Mister Marcel,” Isabell said, her hands pausing in the air halfway to the serving tools for the fish. ”It sounds like we do have important things to discuss tonight. Tell me,” she asked as the last of the servants exited the dining room, closing the door behind them. ”When was the last time you dined with Lady Ashlynn?”