It was to be an event like no other. Invitations made personally had gone out two weeks before, and after strange stutters and starts, it was ready to begin. Those who would come begin arriving to the gold-and-blood flapping of Darkenhold's banners, the courtyard that was an explosion of colored flowers, tawny lion lilies and crimson poppies, to match the Lady's colors that flew. The fortress was impregnable, save for one front. That front had long ago been corrupted.
Earlier in the day, they had come by the wagonsful, packed in with linens and decorations, lean but clean folk who were eager to prove themselves, the cooks and cleaners, maids and servers, that Ariane had needed. All it had taken was a word, a clever-word from a well-dressed lad, borrowed quietly from Ariane, since a man upon a poster may not make further visits.
As the day came onto evening, they came then by carriage, by horse-trap, fancier modes of travel, large surreys with far more beautiful decoration, pulled by fine-bred horses. Not as many came. The ones who took Catch's invitation face-to-face with the man had looked upon the posters with a knowing air. But the rich, the swain - they would not be dissuaded. There was a party, of that there was no doubt, and what if the man had fallen out of favor, done some horrible crimes? For here was Darkenhold, ready and waiting, her terraced gardens and paper lanterns that glimmered like jewels, gentle crickets that peeped their songs unseen, late fire-flies that flickered in the wet, manicured underbrush.
There is gentle music. One may wander and hear the murmur of other guests, yet may never see them through the veil of crisp jasmine. Paths sprinkled with mica-shells, to make them glimmer like stars, led to little clearings, where one may gather with one's peers, and admire great, arcing cakes, crisp and cool sandwiches, mulled punch and wine, and nothing as base as beer, mead, or ale.
It was quiet, and genial, and perfect. The night could stretch on to day, and night again. A man or woman may gather in gentle-colored tents, and find there resting-places of soft pillows and stuffed mattresses, no need to worry of being robbed or molested.
Who would notice the man, with a strange, bulky eyepatch, slipping into the stables? A man who whispered into a pitch-black ear, before he slipped the catch of a loose-box lock, and let the beast follow him, if it may, if it could understand his plea, his plan.
A plan to clear Myrkenwood of the swain, if only for a little while.