Tales of Eldoria - The arrival of D'Hara

Preparing for the Audience

The hours flew by in a flurry of activity as the court readied for the formal audience. Lyra’s personal attendants arrived to help her dress, the gravity of the meeting overriding the discomfort of her advanced pregnancy. She chose a gown of rich, deep emerald green velvet, the colour symbolizing the stability and prosperity of Eldoria. The cut was tailored to accommodate her large bump with royal elegance, emphasizing the majesty of her role as both Queen and mother. Her magnificent ginger hair was styled high, intricately braided and secured with the same delicate golden threads of her crown, now set with greater prominence.

Next, attention turned to Princess Anya. She was dressed in a miniature court gown of cream and gold, her own small curls brushed until they shone. Lyra knelt, despite the effort it took, to fasten a tiny gold locket around Anya's neck. "You are not just my daughter today, my love," Lyra murmured, cupping the child's face. "You are a Princess of Eldoria, and you will sit straight and look at everything, understood?" Anya, wide-eyed and feeling the weight of the occasion, nodded with a solemnity that made Lyra’s heart swell.

The Queen Receives

The small audience chamber was a room designed to impress. It was richly appointed with heavy tapestries depicting Eldorian triumphs and a solid oak table set with two imposing thrones. Queen Lyra sat upon hers, regal and composed, her belly resting against the rich velvet of the armrest. Sparhawk stood beside her, clad in his formal armour, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword—the perfect embodiment of the Knight Protector. Princess Anya sat in a smaller chair beside Lyra, her tiny hands folded neatly in her lap, trying her best to mimic the seriousness of her parents.

The double doors creaked open, and the atmosphere in the room immediately shifted from solemnity to a charged tension.

Cara Rahl entered, leaving her aide outside. She moved with the same predatory grace Sparhawk remembered, but her attire had been exchanged for something far more formal and impactful. She wore a dress of blood-red silk that seemed to cling to every curve, utterly unapologetic in its display of her figure. Her striking red hair was still braided, but heavier gold chains were now woven into the braid, catching the light as she walked. She walked straight, her gaze meeting the Queen’s without deference, a slight, enigmatic smile playing on her lips.

Sparhawk felt the familiar heat of unwelcome arousal in Cara's presence, and he subtly shifted, forcing his focus entirely to his wife. He risked a glance at Lyra. The Queen, usually the picture of warmth, was utterly still, her expression a mask of cool, measured sovereignty. She looked Cara over, from the opulent, bordering-on-scandalous red gown to the challenging confidence in the messenger's eyes. It was a silent clash of two formidable women. Cara stopped a respectful distance from the throne and executed a smooth, deep curtsey that somehow still managed to be powerfully sensual.

“Your Majesty,” Cara’s husky voice resonated through the quiet chamber. “It is a high honor to finally stand before the Queen of Eldoria.”

Lyra held her gaze. "Lady Cara Rahl. Your journey was swift. I trust my consort, Prince Sparhawk, has treated you well."

"Exceedingly well, Your Majesty," Cara replied, her eyes flicking briefly to Sparhawk, a subtle, knowing smirk touching her lips.

Lyra’s gaze remained steady, dismissing the subtle provocation. "Then let us move to the matter at hand. My husband has presented Lord Rahl's offer and we have reached a decision."

Queen Lyra allowed a slow, gracious smile to bloom across her face, a clear signal of the tension breaking.

"Lady Cara Rahl," the Queen began, her voice carrying the finality of a decree. "The terms of alliance, as laid out with my consort, the Prince Sparhawk, have been carefully considered. Eldoria has decided to accept Lord Rahl’s offer of alliance."

Cara's composed expression did not falter, but a keen, satisfying gleam entered her eyes. She executed another gracefully executed curtsey, this one holding perhaps a fraction more respect than the last. "A most welcome decision, Your Majesty. Lord Rahl will be very pleased."

Lyra nodded, rising slightly in her seat, a gesture of conclusion. "Before you depart to carry this news to your master, we would be honored if you would attend a banquet this evening, in honor of your visit and the forging of this new alliance."

"It would be my pleasure, Your Majesty," Cara replied, her voice smooth.

"This evening, then," Lyra confirmed.

As the Queen concluded the meeting, Cara’s thoughts were a whirlwind of calculation. She was pleased that the alliance was secured, but her focus was already shifting. She had watched Prince Sparhawk throughout the meeting, noted the subtle clench of his jaw, the rapid glance he sometimes risked when she spoke, and the way he had to visibly compose himself. He is a challenge, she mused. How long will he resist before he succumbs to my charms? She was confident in her power; she had never met a man, or woman for that matter, she could not seduce, save for the Lord Rahl and his wife, a relationship born of something deeper and utterly singular.

She genuinely liked Lyra, recognizing the Queen's strength and devotion, and was happy the Queen would soon have a new baby. Yet, Cara lived by the creed that she pursued what she desired. She managed to maintain a façade of deep respect throughout the remainder of the discussion concerning the logistics of the treaty and the Lord Rahl’s visit, only occasionally shooting sensual, charged glances at the Lord Protector—each one a subtle, potent volley in a private war of wills.

When the meeting finally ended and Cara Rahl swept from the chamber with another subtle, suggestive parting glance toward Sparhawk, Queen Lyra’s cool composure snapped.

She turned sharply to her husband, an angry scowl replacing her regal smile, clearly preparing to unleash a torrent of questions and perhaps some accusations regarding the D'Haran messenger’s brazen behavior.

"Sparhawk, did you see the way—"

"Mama!"

Lyra was cut short by a small, plaintive voice. Princess Anya, who had been a model of decorum for the entire proceeding, looked up at her mother with wide, pleading eyes. "Can I go play now? I'm bored."

The sudden, simple truth of her daughter's statement, and the complete lack of concern Anya had for the complex, simmering sexual tension that had filled the room, instantly cooled Lyra's anger. Her serious expression melted away, replaced by a ripple of laughter.

She opened her arms wide. "My little boredom-slayer," Lyra chuckled. Anya quickly scrambled out of her chair and swarmed into her mother’s arms with a happy, delighted noise, burying her face into her mother’s neck. Lyra kissed her daughter's hair happily, the moment of pure, undiluted familial love wiping away the distaste Cara Rahl had instilled.

Sparhawk stepped down from the throne platform, placing his sword belt on the chair. He sighed, reaching up to loosen the stiff collar of his formal tunic.

"Guess we will be having visitors," he murmured, meeting Lyra's gaze with a weary but loving expression. He knew the conversation about Cara was merely delayed, not cancelled.

Brief Escape

Sparhawk sat slumped on a rough-hewn stool in a bare stone chamber near the kitchens, the austere environment a sharp contrast to the palace’s rich finery. The simple wine goblet in his hand was almost empty. He took another long pull of the wine, his gaze tracking a baker who hurried past the open door, carrying a large tray of fresh bread destined for the kitchens. The warm, yeasty aroma was a poignant reminder that it had been a long, stressful time since breakfast.

He sighed heavily. The argument hadn’t been pretty. It took a great deal to truly anger his lovely wife, but once that threshold was crossed, the explosion was spectacular. He had discovered that even the charming distraction of their daughter had only delayed the explosion, not deterred it. After Lyra had instructed the Chamberlain regarding the evening’s feast and ensured Princess Anya was safely out of earshot, she had dragged him into their private bedroom. He was surprised the ferocity of their exchange hadn’t peeled the paint from the walls.

He took another drink, swirling the last dregs of wine, just as a large, broad-shouldered man in a plain, dark doublet entered the chamber. The newcomer was Lord Gareth, the Master-at-Arms and Sparhawk’s oldest, most trusted friend. Gareth sighed deeply and dropped heavily into the chair across the table.

He spoke quietly, his voice a low rumble. “She will calm down soon, my friend.” Gareth produced a sealed bottle of something stronger than the table wine from the folds of his cloak, uncorked it with a practiced hand, and poured a generous measure into both goblets.

Sparhawk sighed again before replying, a note of disgust heavy in his tone. “What’s worse, Gareth, is it’s an argument over nothing I have done. Lady Cara must have known exactly what she was doing.” He took a fiery drink of the new liquor.

Gareth followed suit, his face impassive. “It could have been a deliberate tactic to unnerve you before the meeting, or it could just be that she is one of those women who like to play games with people’s reactions.” He paused, then added, “Either way, the Queen sees the threat to her marriage more clearly than the threat to the kingdom, and that is understandable.”

Sparhawk nodded grimly. “Probably both.” He finished his drink in one swallow and pushed himself to his feet, straightening the creases in his formal jacket. The short retreat had done its work; his resolve was renewed. “Well, I better go back upstairs. Lyra will be expecting me.” He clapped Gareth on the shoulder. “I will see you this evening, my friend.” With a last weary breath, he walked out of the rough stone chamber, heading back to the soft light and high tensions of the royal chambers.

.Sparhawk slipped quietly into the royal garden. The late afternoon light was soft, bathing the meticulously kept foliage in a warm glow. Queen Lyra was seated on her favourite marble bench, her profile etched with a troubled look as she watched Princess Anya engrossed in a serious game with her dolls a few yards away.

He approached gently, the soft grass muffling his footsteps, and sat down beside Lyra with a quiet sigh. Before he could speak or even take her hand, she leaned against him, resting her head on his strong shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice small and tight with residual guilt. “I should have trusted you, Sparhawk. I know you.”

He lifted her face to his, his eyes filled with devotion, and he kissed her deeply and passionately, a kiss that affirmed their bond better than any words could. When they finally parted, he rested his forehead against hers.

“You know I love you and will forgive you anything, my Queen,” he murmured, his thumb gently stroking her cheek. They exchanged a profound, understanding smile.

Lyra then looked toward their daughter, who was diligently setting up a tiny dining scene for her dolls, clearly doing very important things involving diplomacy and porcelain.

“What shall we do about Cara tonight?” Lyra asked, the subject of the D’Haran messenger still a thorny concern, even with the apology passed.

Sparhawk grinned, a flash of his Knight Protector’s cunning returning. “I have already dealt with it, my gorgeous.”

Lyra kissed him in reply as he placed a large, warm hand on her stomach, feeling the familiar, reassuring movement of their child.

“I have made sure Lord Brandon will be here tonight,” he stated.

Lyra’s eyes lit up with sudden, wicked comprehension. Lord Brandon, the devastatingly handsome young Duke of the Western Marches, was known throughout the kingdom as an inveterate charmer and a renowned ladies’ man. His reputation was built on his ease with women, yet he was notoriously difficult to pin down or truly conquer. He was an irresistible challenge to anyone with an ego, and Lyra knew that Cara Rahl, with her need to dominate any social or sensual situation, would immediately see him as the ultimate, necessary conquest.

They both grinned, sharing the delightful knowledge of their successful little ploy, and then kissed again, watching their little Angel play, the peace of their family fully restored before the evening’s inevitable tensions.

The Grand Banquet

The Great Hall of the Cimmura Palace was alive with celebration. The banquet was a cheerful, vibrant affair. Cheery music—a lilting melody played by a small ensemble of lutes and flutes—drifted over the crowd of nobles, diplomats, and courtly families. Long tables groaned under the weight of the feast, loaded with a wide variety of foods: smoked meats from the Northern Plains, exotic fruits from the Southern Isles, freshly baked bread, and casks of the kingdom’s finest wines and meads

Couples danced and twirled in the centre of the hall, their movements fuelled by the music and the celebratory mood. Smiles and laughter were the norm; the sense of relief and optimism surrounding the successful alliance negotiation was palpable. At the head table, Queen Lyra, radiant in a deep purple velvet gown, hid a discreet grin behind her cup of chilled fruit juice. Her small, internal triumph was directly related to the evening’s seating arrangements.

Cara Rahl had been placed strategically. She was flanked on one side by the devastatingly handsome Lord Brandon and, on the other, by the famously garrulous and stern Lady Philippa, a matron known for discussing crop yields and tax reform at great length. Meanwhile, Lyra’s own handsome husband was securely seated on the other side of her throne. Prince Sparhawk seemed to be in deep discussion with Lord Gareth and Duke Tyre, two men who offered both excellent conversation and a strong physical buffer.

Their intense political discussion was briefly, and sweetly, disturbed by a small tugging on Sparhawk’s doublet. To the quiet amusement of the two Lords, Sparhawk simply reached down without breaking his flow of conversation, picked up Princess Anya, and settled her comfortably on his lap. He pulled over a small plate of sliced cheeses and berries for her, and then, before returning to his discussion, he kissed the top of her head. The scene was one of perfect, impregnable domesticity.

Cara Rahl, dressed in an even more elaborate, yet subtly provocative, gown than she had worn that morning, felt the initial sting of being deliberately sidelined. Her sensual glances toward Sparhawk were entirely ignored; he was either immersed in policy or occupied with his daughter. She recognized the maneuver for what it was—a clever, defensive shield employed by the Queen. Well played, Lyra, she conceded mentally, though the challenge only increased her desire. Then, she looked to her right. Lord Brandon, who resembled a Greek statue brought to life, with thick, dark hair and eyes that crinkled when he smiled, was already leaning toward her, his gaze filled with easy, flirtatious admiration.

“Lady Cara,” Brandon said, his voice a low, melodious purr that had undone countless women in the kingdom. “D’Haran wine, I am told, is renowned. But it cannot possibly compare to the pleasure of your company.”

Cara’s interest was instantly piqued. This was the famous Brandon—the man women chased and he effortlessly evaded. The Queen and her consort clearly thought this renowned ladies' man would bore her or, worse, attempt his own tame flirtation. Instead, Cara saw him as the evening's new, more immediate conquest. She could sense the power she held over Sparhawk, but Brandon offered a tangible, immediate victory that her ego demanded.

She offered him a slow, scorching smile, her eyes glittering with the predatory focus that Sparhawk had found so distracting. “You flatter me, my Lord Brandon. But tell me, is your company truly as pleasurable as the whispers claim, or are you merely distracting me from this excellent venison?”

Lord Brandon chuckled, a sound that made a few nearby ladies sigh wistfully. “You are as sharp as you are beautiful, Lady. Perhaps we should discover the answer together, away from the venison and the watchful eyes of the court.”

The exchange flowed seamlessly from there. It was a masterclass in aggressive, subtle seduction, with Cara Rahl leading every thrust and parry. She met his charm with a raw, demanding fire that clearly intrigued Brandon, who was used to women being either shy or overly eager. She made him work, but not too hard, making the conquest feel mutual and deliciously inevitable. Brandon, seeing the night’s ultimate challenge sitting right next to him, forgot all about the politics, the Queen, and the duty of the banquet. As the evening wore on, and the music grew softer and the crowds began to thin, Lyra nudged Sparhawk. She didn't need to speak; she just pointed discreetly with her chin.

Sparhawk and Lyra shared a triumphant, silent look. Cara Rahl, with a triumphant, possessive grip on Lord Brandon’s arm, was heading swiftly for the nearest exit, her red silk gown trailing behind her. The huntress had been thoroughly distracted. Before the banquet had finished, Cara Rahl and Lord Brandon had discreetly disappeared from the Great Hall, heading back to Cara’s private rooms in the guest wing.

A Queen's Quiet Counsel

After the last of the guests had retired or dispersed, Queen Lyra and Sparhawk finally made their way back to their private chambers. Lyra settled onto a silk-covered chaise lounge, a weary but contented sigh escaping her lips.

“Well,” she said, looking up at Sparhawk, who was shedding his formal doublet. “Your distraction was most effective, my love.”

Sparhawk smiled, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “The Lady Cara’s primary motivation is to win, be it an alliance or a suitor. She had a far more immediate and attractive conquest in Lord Brandon than in a grumpy, pregnant Queen’s consort.” He knew the flattery would earn him points.

Lyra’s smile faded slightly as she grew serious. “But that is exactly what worries me, Sparhawk. She is a force. She has brought D’Hara into an alliance, and in doing so, she has sown discord in our bedroom. Her ability to manipulate the atmosphere is… unnerving. We can’t rely on a handsome decoy every time she visits.”

Sparhawk sat beside her, taking her hand. “I agree. And the truth is, I don’t believe she intended to seduce Brandon for D’Hara’s benefit. I think she did it to prove she could. She has a staggering ego, Lyra. That will be her vulnerability, not her strength.”

“Then we must be prepared to handle that ego when Richard Rahl arrives,” Lyra stated, her royal composure fully reinstated. “We have signed a treaty in good faith, and D’Hara is now our ally. But we must set a clear boundary. We cannot have their representative destabilizing our court.”

She squeezed his hand, her eyes resolute. “When Lord Rahl arrives, I will ensure he understands that his emissary's behaviour is unacceptable for future diplomatic missions. She will not be welcome back unless she can maintain decorum. An alliance must be built on trust, not on a foundation of scandalous distraction.”

Sparhawk admired her resolve. "As you command, my Queen. I shall support you fully."

They kissed, the argument from the afternoon now a distant memory, their focus entirely on the future and the welfare of their kingdom and family.

Cara Rahl's Victory

Meanwhile, in the luxurious guest suite, Cara Rahl was already working on the total disarmament of her latest quarry. She found Lord Brandon’s initial attempts at being coy thrilling—he was used to dictating the terms of flirtation, but she had seized control the moment he’d sat beside her.

As she moved across the room, she didn't just shed the heavy silk of her red gown; she let it slide, slow and deliberate, pooling on the floor with a sound like a sigh. She was left wearing only the barest essentials of D'Haran leather, designed to emphasize every sculpted curve. Her thoughts were not on Lord Brandon, but on the Prince she had just left at the high table.

Sparhawk, she mused with a satisfied, sultry smirk. A lovely game. A clumsy attempt to distract me with a handsome lapdog.

She hadn't been genuinely interested in Lord Brandon before the banquet, but the moment she realized he was a deliberate obstacle, he instantly became a prize. She wasn't seeking true affection; she was seeking conquest and validation. Conquering the Ladies' Man proved to her—and would eventually prove to the Prince—that she could have any man she chose, married or unmarried.

He thinks he's safe now, watching his little Angel, she thought, the scent of expensive perfume and bare skin filling the room. But the truth is, the more he tries to push me away, the more intriguing he becomes.

She turned to face Lord Brandon, who was already across the room, no longer leaning against the door frame but striding toward her, his formal coat half-unbuttoned, his gaze utterly consumed by lust. She could feel his focus, hot and heavy, before he even touched her.

"My Lord," she purred, her voice a low, throaty challenge, not bothering with the wine glass. She moved quickly, pinning him against the nearest wall with a brazen shove that was more assertion than caress. Her hand immediately found its way inside his hastily opened clothes. "Shall we discuss D'Haran diplomacy now, or shall we simply get to the signing of the treaty?"

The last lingering question in the court's mind—of whether Brandon would succumb—was answered as his low, guttural moan filled the silence. Their clothes and the last vestiges of courtly decorum followed the red silk to the floor.

A Pilgrimage and a Friend

The palace arboretum was a quiet, fragrant haven. Queen Lyra lay comfortably cushioned on a chaise lounge, finding a rare moment of repose. The Chancellor and the First Minister were with her, murmuring over the final preparations necessary for the state visit of Lord Rahl. Lyra was focused, but content.

Lady Cara had departed to return to D'Hara the day before. Her farewell audience had been surprisingly comfortable, in part because the court's gossip—which, as Lyra knew, travels around court quicker than air—was already dominated by the rumours of Cara's conquest of Lord Brandon. The main reason for the tranquillity however, was Sparhawk’s convenient absence. He was currently on a day trip with Princess Anya to the nearby Church of the Risen Saint. Though Lyra was sad she could not accompany them because of her advanced condition, the quiet time had allowed her to get a massive amount of work done. She smiled before telling the Chancellor to stop worrying and order the new tents and awnings for the tourney with no questions.

The Saint and the Soldier

The Church of the Risen Saint was an ancient, massive edifice built of white stone, known less for its sermons and more for its breathtaking stained-glass windows and deep sense of history. Sparhawk felt the tension drain from his shoulders the moment they stepped inside the cool, echoing nave.

Anya, dressed in practical riding trousers and a light tunic, was instantly awestruck by the shafts of coloured light that turned the dust motes dancing in the air into glittering jewels. Sparhawk, holding her small hand tightly, guided her to the altar where supplicants often lit candles.

“Why do they call him the Risen Saint, Papa?” Anya whispered, mimicking her father’s hushed tones.

Sparhawk helped her light a slender white taper, its small flame joining dozens of others. “Because, my little warrior, he was a humble man who faced a terrible challenge—fear—and he chose to rise above it and help others instead of running away.” Sparhawk thought of the challenge he himself had just faced, and quietly offered a silent prayer of gratitude for his wife's cunning.

They spent the better part of the morning exploring the church grounds, with Sparhawk telling Anya simplified, heroic stories about the figures depicted in the ancient frescoes. By early afternoon, they had left the silent reverence of the church behind and were back on the road, heading toward the sturdy walls of Lord Gareth’s manor.

Home Comforts and Shared Secrets

Gareth’s home was not a palace, but a comfortable, fortified estate built for function and family. Sparhawk and Anya were greeted on the steps by Lord Gareth himself and his equally large, smiling wife, Lady Mair, who immediately swept Anya up into a motherly hug.

“Sparhawk, you look like you haven’t slept in a week!” Gareth rumbled, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

A moment later, a blur of motion appeared in the doorway: Elspeth, Gareth’s daughter, a sturdy, bright-eyed girl the same age as Anya. The two girls took one look at each other and the friendship was sealed. Without a word, they were gone, giggling and clattering off to the nursery, eager to compare dolls and talk about important things.

With the children happily occupied, Sparhawk and Gareth retreated to the comforting darkness of Gareth’s small study, where two tankards of the estate's finest dark ale were promptly produced. Sparhawk sank into a leather chair with a sigh that carried the weight of state affairs and marital stress.

“Thank you, my friend. Lyra sent me out to save my life, I think,” Sparhawk admitted, taking a long, grateful drink.

Gareth leaned forward, his expression conspiratorial. “The court is buzzing. We heard Cara Rahl left quickly, and the only thing anyone is talking about is Lord Brandon. Was it true? Did he fall for it?”

Sparhawk chuckled, a genuine, relaxed sound. “He didn’t ‘fall’ for it, Gareth. He was targeted. Cara saw a prize that was more immediate than Lyra’s husband and she pursued it. It was a beautiful piece of chess by the Queen. It made Cara leave feeling triumphant, and Lyra feeling secure. A double victory for Eldoria.”

He set his tankard down, the relief evident in his posture. “And it smoothed things over wonderfully at home. Lyra was convinced I was somehow encouraging that woman. But the sight of Brandon being dragged off like a trophy… it was all the proof she needed that Cara had her own agenda.”

Gareth shook his head, a slight grin touching his lips. “Brandon is a good lad, but a fool for a pretty face. He’ll recover. And you, my friend, have your wife and your kingdom safe. Sometimes the most important battles are won by avoiding the fight entirely.”

As the sun began to set, bathing the study in deep orange light, the two men continued to talk—politics, defense, the strange new face of D’Haran leadership, and the mundane joy of watching their daughters’ immediate and intense friendship flourish just beyond the door. It was a perfect, necessary escape.