November 3, XXXVIII Sevrin eased himself into his favorite chair at his favorite table in the dimmer corner of the greatroom that was the Yale's Head Tavern. He liked this spot for he could see everyone in the room, and at his back was a side door that could only be opened from the within. He reached up and slipped the latch on the diamond-paned window beside him so it hung open a crack, then dressed and lit his pipe. A silent servant placed a frosted tankard of ale on the smooth patina'd surface of the table before him and received a silent nod of thanks. Adjusting his cloak about his shoulders and stretching out his legs toward the warmth that hissed and crackled softly in the nearby hearth, Sevrin settled himself. The cold of the ale was refreshing and the musty spiced tang of the pipe played counterpoint to his taste. With both hands thus occupied, Sevrin alternatively sipped and puffed smoke rings into the air, watching them elongate and withdraw through the small opening of the window, floating like small ghosts into the night. It had been an inordinately busy season in Danescombe, the public festivals, the tournaments, the grand annual feast at Saint Gentian's, travels to other shires, and the conflagration that had raped the sparse woods throughout the shire's lands. That last had almost made for a disaster when Danescombe hosted the Coronet Tournament, but the rough and ready energy of the shire folk had pressed through and saved the day. So Sevrin pondered as he sat, relishing the calm that had descended over his shire along with the first hesitant snow that drifted on the wind outside. The Yale's Head, like Sevrin, was still recovering from this year's Machiavelli Masqued Ball. Candle wax was still being chipped from tables and scraped off the table cloths; Sequins from the eastern dancers still glinted in the corners of the room; and a servant still scrubbed at the deep burgundy stain of blood that lay across the doorway ... What was the name of that new fellow? Kato? Kaylynn? He shook his head ... unfortunate ... tragic really ... the young man didn't know that one never drew a knife intended for a Peer within the shire no matter the cause ... for many other knives traveled in secret through Danescombe, and one had found his young heart. Sevrin's eyes were drawn to the black cloak that still hung on the peg by the front door, placed there in the confusion after the assassination of the Doge. Sevrin knew that cloak well, as he knew it's owner well. Another tragedy that ached deep in his heart; Moire was gone. She had come to the Ball late, and was caught on the narrow road near the tavern where she had been trampled by a rider's horse as it galloped away - some say it was the assassin himself. It was Lord Harleigh who came upon the scene first. He had knelt on the road, beneath the cold winter's night sky, and held her poor crumpled body, her pale face lit by a merciless moon, with soft lips that her smile would grace no more. Sevrin had known the soul that had lived within that now stilled breast ... and he would miss the mischief and glee of that soul. Sevrin's uneven sigh was interrupted as his eye caught a faint silver sheen that fought to be seen in the shadows near his feet. Picking it up, and holding it in the dim candlelight, Sevrin saw that it was a diminutive silver star - its surface not bright, but sporting a rich shimmer. A small smile lifted the corner of his lips and Sevrin's eyes gazed at and through the tiny ornament into the mist of memory ... In his time in Danescombe, Sevrin had acquired, as do all, moments that lay suspended in time and memory. Memories that defined a life when viewed as a whole; A proud white-haired Knight striding with noble purpose to a war field, declaring he was off to "make a Prince" in a clash of armies orchestrated by the skilled manipulations of his King; Being a guest in an Appledore manor, drawn to rapt attention as Alis, Lady-in-Waiting to Eleanor of Aquitaine, told her tale of Louis' failed Crusade to the Holy Lands; and now another added to the portraits within the halls of his memory, symbolized by this little star ... It had been while learning new dances at the Machiavelli Masque that the moment stole into Sevrin's life. Separated from his Lady-Wife Keinna during the dances, Sevrin found himself at the side of Danescombe's latest noble "émigré", Hadassah Marvell. She had come to the ball dressed in full costume, of whites and silvers, fine cloths and laces. Her long gossamer hair coiled and draped just so in the latest court fashion, and upon her face a shimmering silver masque that hid the treasure of her beauty, but did nothing to hide her bright eyes and long lashes. Her costume, decorated with small silver stars, made her the moving epitome of a cold winter's night. Yet those eyes glowed with the warmth hidden within that icy laced gown. The name of the dance, Sevrin could no longer recall. Nor the music that accompanied it. But it was a dance of sensuous chase and pursuit, and involved alternately the Lord, then the Lady pulling free and dancing away, while the other caught up, to again take up an embrace of only the fingertips. And then, to close the dance, each would again break away, but would turn and reverence their partner and return ... if they so chose. Sevrin had felt her fingers slip from his own as she danced away from him, weaving through the crowd. His eyes tried to track her in the dimness of the hall as other ladies crossed and moved between them. But alas, the scene was a confusion of motion, of colour, of flickering candlelight and moving shadows, the rhythmic din of the music and staccato of laughter mixed into the tumult that assailed him. Sevrin only caught glimpses of silver moving through the crowd as she traveled further and further from him and then lost sight of her completely. It was then that the natural forces of this universe united to create a subtle yet thrilling magic; For as he stood - yearning to see if this lady would return, his heart aching in anticipation - the dancers between them parted, and the Princess of a Winter's Night, lit only by the candles on nearby tables, had turned and was facing him from across the room. Her eyes glowed from within the masque that hid her expression from him. His own eyes transfixed on hers ... and as Sevrin watched, she lifted her skirts outward a degree and performed her reverence to him, then with the grace and subtlety of one of heaven's clouds, she made her way back to his side and took his hand once more. The small star held captive in his fingertips blurred in Sevrin's sight as the memory danced in the pristine silence of his mind. And that memory still lingered as Sevrin rose and pressed that tiny little star deep into a crack in the end of the thick wooden mantle that crowned the hearth of the Yale's Head Tavern. For there it would remain, and Sevrin knew that it could only be seen by sitting in that favored chair, at that favored table, by one who knew it was there, so subtle was it's shimmer. Sevrin then arose, wrapped his cloak about him, closed the window and stepped out through the side door into the frosted air that embraced his shire, to make his way home.