Four Realms of Desire

Duke Alix of Windrider, Commander of the King’s Cavalry, entered the kingdom of Greenborne sitting high on his horse, back straight, face devoid of expression. Four Windrider knights followed him, their red and gold banners sharp against the forest.

He had come to the forest realm to decide whether one of its princesses would become his cousin’s wife. The marriage would not occur for years yet, both the Prince of Windrider and the Princess of Greenborne were still teenagers, but his report would decide the future of the alliance.

At the edge of the kingdom, where the forest began, Greenborne sentries sat high in the trees. No alarm was raised, no signal given. They simply watched him pass., bows strung loosely over their shoulders.

Alix nudged his horse forward.

The Windrider envoy proceeded through the forest. The only sounds were the rhythm of hooves and chorus of birds.

When the castle revealed itself, no challenge came and no herald called his name. The stone archway was passed beneath as though no one knew, or cared, that he had arrived.

Inside the courtyard, chickens pecked between cobblestones. A large hound lay stretched across the steps. A steward emerged from the entrance, blinking as though the sunlight was mildly offensive. 

“The King is out hunting, Your Grace,” the steward bowed. “He will return when he returns.”

Alix suppressed his annoyance. “We will wait.” 

Alix dismounted. He walked a slow circuit of the courtyard. The fortress walls were half claimed by climbing vines. Somewhere deeper within the keep, a woman sang, slightly out of tune. 

By the third hour, Alix had counted every archer’s blind (seven) and every window facing the courtyard (nineteen, with one missing its glass). If so inclined, he could have scaled the tower with a length of rope and not a single soul would have noticed.

He had just begun his fourth lap when a pack of riders broke the treeline, their mounts massive and shaggy. Greenborne wolves, each the size of a pony and built of muscle and malice. At their head rode the King.

By elven standards, the man was an ogre. He dismounted with a bellow, then staggered forward, shining with sweat, holding a flask.

“Duke Alix!” the King called out. “I expected you tomorrow. Or was it yesterday?” He crushed Alix’s hand in a greeting somewhere between a handshake and torture.

“Today,” Alix said, teeth tight.

“Welcome! Come in, come in.” The King gestured wildly, nearly striking a servant with his elbow. 

“The King sends his regards.”

“Of course he does. And you’ll carry mine back. But first you’ll have supper and stay the night. Our wolves prefer strangers after sunset.”

The King poured a drink for each of them, insisting on a toast. 

“To new friends,” the King clinked his cup so hard the wine sloshed onto Alix’s sleeve. 

Alix drank. The wine was sharp with a grassy aftertaste. He watched as the King drained his cup and wiped his mouth with the back of a paw-sized hand.

Inside, the main hall was a cavernous stone chamber, hung with spears and shields. In one corner, a dead boar hung suspended from the ceiling by its hind legs. The air was thick with wood smoke, roast meat and wet moss.

The King sat at a table laden with food, dropping into the chair with a creak. Alix followed, eyeing every exit. The King pointed a rib bone at the chair beside him.

“Tomorrow, we will speak of the alliance,” he declared. “Tonight, we eat. You can meet my daughters in the morning. I’ve no patience for the harridans after a day’s hunting.”

“Windrider custom is to conduct business during supper,” Alix replied. 

“Greenborne custom is to see what a man is made of when he’s had three cups of wine and half a deer.” The King tossed scraps to the hound at his feet.

Alix chewed with discipline. He watched the way the King slouched, the way he tore bread apart, the way he barked with laughter and sighed theatrically.

At some point the King asked about the health of the young prince and Alix recited the expected reply: in good spirits and eager for the alliance. The King seemed to find this hilarious.

“Not much like his father,” the King said. “He’s never so much as smiled in the presence of a Greenborne.”

“Windrider tradition prizes restraint.”

“Does it?” The King signalled for more wine. “Perhaps that’s why you Easteners always look so miserable.”

The King’s laughter filled the hall. Even the hound smirked.

Alix let it pass. He thought of the journey here across the steppe, the days of dust and discipline. He thought of the old Windrider saying: the grass bends in the wind, but never breaks. He wondered what it must be like to live in a world where everything grew wild.

The conversation wandered from weather to wolves. The King told two stories that ended with someone losing a finger and by the time supper was over, Alix had learned more about Greenborne than he ever wished to know.

The King leaned back, stretching.

“I suppose you’re wondering about my daughters,” he said. “Gods help me, they’re a handful. The second is a good girl but she’s already promised to the Prince of Frostborne.” He drained the last of his wine. “The youngest will be the death of me.”

He cast Alix a look. “Truth be told, none of them have had much discipline since their mother died.”

Alix nodded. The late Queen had been a princess from Frostborne, renowned for both her beauty and her spirit. She had also been half human. He wondered if that explained the daughters, the court, or the King himself. 

In the back of his mind, he began composing the report he would write and send home.

Greenborne remains unchanged.

Its wolves are not limited to the woods.