"I hereby request that Edontas officially involve itself in this perversion of justice and that you send five-and-twenty men through guise of night to the Blackfort to aid in my release. Your nephew, Oren Lugain."
The king finished reading the letter aloud, and and began to laugh a snide grumble of a laugh. His red face and beady eyes were difficult to make out in his chamber's candlelight, but his unmistakably naked frame and wild, wiry hair gave him a silhouette befitting of a troll in a storybook. A servant stood by the foot of his bed -- a young man with a feint patchy beard and brown hair pulled into a thin, wispy ponytail. The only detail notable of the young man was his leather overshirt with the Flitton's direbat embossed into the chest, marking him as a servant to the house of Flitton, which now resembled little more than a bat's shadow in the king's dark, cavernous room.
Both of Valdemar's pudgy hands had golden rings and bracelets that shone in the dark room as he laughed, and moreso as he slapped his knuckles against the letter in his chortling. He sat upright in his bed, which overflowed and spilled onto the floor with blankets and sheets, with two strikingly Edontian-featured young women at both of his sides, laying peacefully. The air of the room was thick with incense and pipesmoke that wicked through the candlelight as it thinned and disappeared, and clung with hot sweat, making it unpleasantly swampy. Valdemar pulled his pipe from his lips, exuding a plume of smoke into the face of the servant who stood unflinchingly at the foot of his bed.
"My sister's northern whelp is asking for me to send soldiers to save him. I haven't seen that bitch in thirty some years, I didn't even know she had a son. I may as well send her a birthing gift, too."
The servant smiled and gave a pleasant laugh, though he was experienced enough to not add a remark on what the king had said -- all of Valdemar's servants knew he hated that. The king of Edontas was a clever man, and didn't take kindly to servants trying to be as clever as him.
"Shall I send for five-and-twenty men, my liege?"
Valdemar scoffed, handing the servant the letter as he stood up and off the bed, wincing as his bare feet touched the cold, stone floor. "Send him the Hockor knight. Ser Brian, was it?" He placed his pipe on a small table by the bed and returned quickly, lurching forward and climbing over one of the whores, scrambling as he gradually pulled one of the sheets up to cover his indecency.
"Ser Byren, my liege."
"The one with that ghastly face. You know who which bloody knight. Send for a fresh pipe for your king, and close the door on your way out. I'll hear nothing more of this northern brat."
Princess Anna Helvetii watched her step-mother quietly out of the corner of her eye. The two of them were seated in main visiting room of the Queens Tower, a three tiered structure on the southwest corner of the main Citadel. The two women rarely spent any time near each other and Anna widely wondered if this was how all Step-mothers interacted with their adopted offspring. Her fingers were busy fletching an arrow with green dyed goose feathers. A pile of similarly done arrows lay nearby, the heads expertly tied down, all the feathers straight and correct.
The silence might have made it feel as if they were alone but at least a half dozen ladies in waiting hovered just out of sight behind a door, waiting at the beck and call of either Royal person. Some people seemed to think it was nice to have someone waiting on you hand and foot, Anna found it frustrating as it made it quite impossible to do anything in private. At least her personal guard was female. Small mercies she supposed.
"Your brothers seem to be getting along well enough." The Queens voice almost made Anna jump, the silence had been so complete for quite some time now. She glanced out the window, craning her neck to see the two Princes battling each other with blunted weapons as their instructors looked on.
"Yes, if hitting each other in the head constitutes "getting along"." Anna replied with a hint of sarcasm. The two women were not fond of each other. Queen Gisela, Anna's mother, had died some fifteen years previously and though Queen Adelaide had done her best to be a mother to Anna and Conrad, they had never truly bonded with her as a mother figure. Young Frederick, their younger half-brother, on the other hand got along with both of them famously and they loved him as the blood relation he was. It made for an odd family dynamic.
It wasn't as if Anna tried to make life difficult for the Queen. They just had nothing to talk about, or anything in common at all. Anna had been raised as a lady who could fight, in the traditional Rhaetian style. The Queen was the eldest daughter of Lord William of House Cotini. Lord William and his kin had been given the lands bordering Edontas to rule, and make sure the cave dwellers stayed on their side of the wall. It strengthened the bond between North and South in Rhaetia. It had been a smart match but the Queen, like many of those in the North, showed the influence of countless years of skirmishes and marriages with the savages beyond the Wall in their darker hair. There was no denying that she was beautiful. But she just didn't quite match what Anna had imagined her mother would look like.
"Well this has been fun but I am going to go find something to eat." Anna stated abruptly, standing and picking up her quiver of completed arrows. "Do you want anything?" She asked grudgingly.
"No." The Queen's answer was curt but Anna thought she detected more sorrow than anger in the word. It made her angry, angry at herself. She could only imagine how it must have been to leave your own home, travel all the way to the south, and live with complete strangers. She opened her mouth as if to say something more and then turn abruptly away and left the room.
Her barefoot made virtually no noise as she descended the long stairs down from the tower. Her bodyguards, two of them, moved quietly behind her. They wore simple leather armour inside the Citadel and carried only short swords and daggers. They stepped quickly and quietly as well, eyes always watchful. For what, Anna had no idea.
She reached the bottom of the stairs and passed the quiver off to a waiting huntsman who bowed and hurried them away to be carefully stored in the Royal Armoury. Then, her stomach grumbling, she made for the kitchens.
Positioned on one of the Blackfort’s few balconies Rurik surveyed the city spreading out below. Everything seemed tiny from here - the houses, shops, inns, markets, guildhalls and warehouses of Highcliff appeared as little more than children’s toys. The multitude of people moving along the wide streets blurred into an almost indistinguishable mass, broken only by the occasional glint of steel from a soldier’s helmet. It looked more like a damned anthill than a city truth be told, and just as likely to be trampled.
Frowning, Rurik scanned the King’s Way, tracing its path as it crossed the city and then gradually blended with the southern horizon. There were plenty of caravans going in both directions; a glance towards the Greylin painted a similar picture. He could count at least fifteen ships on their way to Highcliff and just as many bound for Saltbrook. As usual, about half of those were Bogken ships, which came all the way from the distant south, bringing their much-needed supply of sand of foodstuffs.
Yes, despite the madness that seemed to have gripped the world following the Godfall, life seemed to go on as it always had. Neither the peasant tilling the fields, nor the captain steering his ship in the river paid much heed to what transpired around them. As long as the year was good and trade kept flowing, they would blindly carry on with their simple, uneventful lives. Rurik knew better though and good thing too, for men who saw farther than their noses were few and far between.
He’d always been confident and sure of himself, however the idea of ruling all of this terrified him more than he cared to admit. It wasn’t just one town, but an entire country, with all the Holds and farms and outposts…it simply boggled the mind. Rurik was never one to back down from a challenge though and a man had to do his duty, no matter his aversion for it. Gripping the railing, he steadied himself; this was his fortress, his land, his people, his kingdom and he’d be damned if he let Kedoren be toppled by these trying times.
With a grunt Rurik walked back into his room. The day was still young, though his head was already throbbing from all the troubles life threw at him. His father, the King, was still missing without a trace. The old fool had gone mad, but he could at least have had the decency to leave a will behind. Instead, Rurik had to keep the peace through sheer will and the strength of House Tyndall’s forces, which he had been strengthening over the past few years. The Freeholds had little love for him and sensed his weakness, it was only a matter of time before they made their move, he was sure of it.
If that wasn’t enough, one of his trusted men, Oren Lugain, was implicated in the King’s disappearance. The boy was head of the Blackfort’s guards and had served well so far, but his foreign blood had quickly drawn suspicion, to the point where most everyone now considered him to be either a traitor or simply incompetent. Adding to that, he had received yet another letter from his mother-in-law, Gwyn Strolund, requesting assistance for her missing whelp. It was as if the bloody woman was blind to the fact that the King himself had disappeared!
Oh, but there was more of course. The Twin Moons, the heirloom of his House and symbol of Kedoren’s kings, had gone missing a few days after his father. And now he’d heard rumours of his young brother forsaking his studies in Rhaetia. Owyn had done this twice, the fool! It was as if fate itself conspired against him or maybe Eirtu had forsaken Kedoren, following his wife’s destruction. What had they done to deserve this though? Kedorians had always been on good terms with the Moons….
He was pulled away from his grim thoughts by a knock on the door.
“Enter” he said, seating himself on the only chair in the room.
Osgar Parhall, more commonly known as Dog-nose, appeared a moment later, saluting in the northern style, hands crossed at his chest and bowing slightly. A salute normally reserved for a king. With his scar and dour demeanor, he wasn’t a pleasant man to look at, but Rurik wasn’t particularly interested in his appearance.
“You called, my lord?”
“Ser Parhall” Rurik began, shifting the papers on his otherwise bare desk “I have need of that dog’s nose of yours.”
Rurik detected a hint of a frown on Osgar’s face, who wasn’t too fond of his nickname, but he wouldn’t dare speak up against his liege.
“I’ll be short.” he continued “As you know, the King is missing. The Twin Moons have also vanished. An entire castle full of guards know nothing, have seen nothing and have done nothing. Nothing!”
Rurik breathed in, calming himself. “They say you’re the best tracker this side of the Windwall. To hear the smallfolk tell it, you could find Elonar herself.”
“A correction, my lord. The best tracker on both sides of the Windwall.”
“Prove it.” Rurik slammed his fist on the table “I don’t need you to find the bloody Goddess. Find me the King or the Twin Moons. I need one of them, preferably both.”
“My lord..?” Osgar hesitated.
“Talk. Spit it out.”
“What if the King is – is dead?”
It was a possibility, an increasingly growing one, Rurik had to admit. It didn’t matter though, he had his plans and his father would no longer stand in his way, dead or alive.
“I don’t care. Find him or his corpse. I need to know.”
“Yes, lord. It will be done.”
“Then go. You have my full confidence on this.” Rurik took out a heavy pouch and tossed it to him “Take what men you need and buy supplies with what I gave you. Depart at once.”
“Of course, my lord it –“
Rurik cut him off with a wave. “Go!”
Dog-nose turned on his heels and made for the door. He was about to leave the room, when Rurik spoke again.
“Osgar” his voice took on a softer, colder tone “don’t return empty-handed. Come back with Mir or the pendant or I swear on the Moons, I’ll hang you by the balls from the southern gate!”
“Understood, lord.”
Rurik leaned back in his chair, exhaling. The pieces were set and his plans were in motion. The Godfall had heralded the coming of change - one era had passed and another was beginning. It wasn’t the end of the world or the beginning of divine judgement, he knew that much, but the old order was crumbling. Kedoren needed brave souls to guide it through these dark times towards the coming dawn and Rurik would be at the forefront of it. He would have it no other way.
Dayton Osgar had never liked Hebban. It was the second castle of House Osgar, but first in seniority, in size, and worst of all, in splendour. The Osgars had ruled from Hebban in the old days, starting after the Conquest by Ardall the Great in what was now ancient history, and lasting well past the Great Uprising that deposed his successors. In the grand historical scheme of things, Dayton pondered, Hebban had only held its current diminished prestige for a short time; it was only a handful of hundreds of years ago that Rytael had been built to replace it, the new seat of the newly royal House Osgar. Hebban had remained, though, standing proud and tall within the centre of the sprawling city to which it had loaned its name. It now housed not the Lords of House Osgar, but their successors, in a strange arrangement that the Aaldoren had come to see as a national tradition. Rytael was a smaller and dramatically more austere keep than Hebban, and the people of Aaldorenfeald were taught that housing the Prince in a grander castle than his father helped to curb unrest, to prevent an heir longing too greatly to take the throne in his own right. It was an idea that seemed to hold credence in a kingdom that had been the site of far too many civil wars.
Nonetheless, Dayton detested it, having protested to his father at each available opportunity. Dayton's pleasure was not because he deigned to replace his father in some pointless, impatient coup, however. Rather, Dayton had always hated Hebban for precisely the reason he was supposed to love it. The prince loathed the fountains of wine, the fancy tapestries and the armies of servants. He did not like conducting himself like some ponce, some foreign glutton who depended on the help to wipe his ass and chew his food. Dayton's father, Grindan, had always instilled in him that a King should not become involved in the basal luxuries of his office. The greatest glory of rule was in ruling itself, not in the trappings. Dayton felt the jewelled necklaces and golden bracelets that his servants tried to dress him in as cuffs on his wrists and chains around his neck, restraining him from the virtue that he sought to achieve and uphold, in his family's great name. What sort of Osgar would he be, what sort of heir to the likes of the great King Rytael, if he was not strong? If he could not care for himself, and was more interested in food and finery than in his people?
Dayton pondered, as he awaited his father's visit to Hebban, on what he considered the most important lesson that Grindan had ever taught him. It had started as a simple phrase when Dayton was young, a sentence that his father had forced him to memorize, to repeat aloud to scold himself whenever he did wrong and was caught. "The wolf has purple eyes." A strange phrase, for foreigners, but to all Aaldoren they had an important meaning. A true Osgar, a true Aaldoren, and indeed an truly virtuous person, must always keep his eyes on his goals. That was all that virtue meant, and the full extent, in Dayton's mind, of what it was to be a good ruler, and a good person. Simply find a virtuous path, and follow it. Nothing else mattered.
Queen Payton suddenly arrived, startling Dayton. The Prince had been totally enveloped in thought, sitting and waiting sat on top of his disgustingly pompous seat in Hebban's throne-room. The only people he had expected to swing open the doors from the courtyard and step in to the court were his father, and perhaps some guardsmen. It was understandable, though, of course, that his mother had arrived as well, to visit her son. They had not seen each other in several months, and certainly the Queen missed him. The Prince did too, as much or more, though he tried to show it less. Royalty or not, sons were not expected to be too fond of seeing their mothers. Even a paragon of virtue like Dayton was not immune to the embarrassment of being a son too close to his mother. Rising from his throne and extending his arms to embrace his mother, Dayton also gave her a warm, welcoming smile. Payton obliged, wrapping her lithe form around Dayton and kissing his head.
"You smell of perfume," Payton chimed with a grin, playfully mocking her beloved son. She knew all too well of his tastes and distastes. "And that lovely robe of yours! Very pretty. I'm sure you've been making all of the city girls blush, in jealousy if nothing else."
Dayton's grin turned sullen, and he found himself standing up taller, perhaps to try and adjust for his diminished pride. As his embrace with his mother ended, he was eager to change the subject. "You rode here with father. Did he give you any word of what he intended to speak to me about?"
The Queen opened her mouth as if to speak, but then spent another moment deciding what to say first. "Grindan isn't here. He did speak to me, though, at length. He relayed a message for me to give to you." Payton paused, and turned her eyes to the guards standing behind Dayton, flanking his throne. She then turned her head to face her own men who had entered alongside her. They understood and obeyed, exiting the room and leaving the Prince and Queen alone. Payton continued, "Your father rides west, with a small army. He intends to resolve a dispute in Uxfrea lands. Some of those damned Black Brothers have been preaching that the end is nigh, stirring up trouble. I would imagine it wouldn't have been an issue if they didn't have half of the countryside agreeing with them. Your righteous father intends to end the insurrection peacefully, but he didn't bring that many men with him if he only expected to have to talk."
Dayton raised an eyebrow. "A handful of shepherds in revolt doesn't seem like a crisis fit for a King's intervention."
Payton chuckled. "You're right. I think it's more fit for a prince to intervene. You'll be riding west, back home to Rytael, and then west again. Your father wishes to see how you will do at handling this sort of issue. Of course, it was my idea for you to go, but don't tell remind Grindan of that. Let him think he's clever."
The Prince did not have anything to say in argument. He wanted nothing more than to depart from the gilded cage in which he was now both warden and prisoner. He did have one more question, though. "Why remove the guards to tell me this? It's not as if this is something spies would even care about."
Without warning, Dayton found himself being hugged again, a few matronly kisses placed on his cheeks and forehead. Once she was done, her son finished sighing, Payton stepped ahead and comfortably took a seat in her son's throne. "Didn't want you to be embarrassed again. Run along now. I will be managing Hebban in your stead; I believe the dresses they have you wear here are more accustomed to a lady's style anyway."
Dayton nodded, agreeing with his mother on both accounts, and quickly departed after redressing for travel. As he set off on his horse, a small company in tow, Dayton began to think about why his father was so eager to test his leadership, on such a seemingly trivial matter. Grindan had always fostered independence in Dayton, allowing his first-born son to mature into a ruler at his own pace and of his own accord. Tests like this were not common. There was a nagging doubt in Dayton's already busy mind, as the trees of the Black Woods came into view on the horizon, that the issue was as simple as his mother had described. Time would tell.
There is a crisis related to the Godfall ongoing in western Aaldorenfeald. A group of Black Brothers, preaching that the end is nigh, are stirring up revolt in the lands of House Uxfrea, a vassal of House Osgar. King Grindan has gone in with an armed force, to calm the situation. He has sent his wife, Queen Payton, to talk to their son Dayton (who is presiding over the palace of Hebban), and tell him to join Grindan in resolving the revolt. Payton takes command of Hebban in her son's place. Dayton doubts that the conflict is as simple as he has been told.
"They're not going to follow a man in a sack." Sophitia softly spoke. She and her brother sat in Cavernhall's gardens, surrounded by flowering bushes and trees. Sophitia had always preferred the gardens to the rest of their ancestral seat, and it wasn't hard to see why. Cavernhall was a dank, dark fortress embedded deep into the earth. Dead roots dangled from its ceilings, and cold winds slowly rolled through dark, empty halls like ghosts in the night. Unlike the gardens, it was not a place for the sun. Shrubs, trees, flowers and grasses all bloomed and grew around them, and in place of their castle's low, windy hum, the only sounds to be heard were the lilting songs of birds.
"I could be wearing my mother's flowering gown. They'll follow a knight." Bagface said, pausing before looking up from the ground. Sophitia's voice was soft and songlike, even as she spoke to her brother in conversation, but Bagface's was a hoarse, Edontian growl. His voice scraped the walls of his throat, and even through the thick cotton of his bag, it was unmistakably gravelly. He sat on a dark stump opposite his sister, who sat on a stone bench. She wore a light blue dress bordered at the hem with black threading, whereas her brother opted for a shimmering, dark blue velveteen tunic, grey trousers, and black boots. His faithful walking stick stood between his legs, leaning against the stump and loosely into Bagface's four-fingered left hand.
"A faceless knight?" Sophitia asked with a weak tilt of her head, trying to speak as gently as possible about the sensitive subject. She had been known Bagface while he was still Culven, and had sat diligently by his bedside across a divider while he healed, singing and playing her harp to ease him to sleep. He forbade her from ever seeing him during this time, before he had his infamous bags, though she did not hold this against him. She began to recall the tall, stone-faced northern mage that assisted in Culven's healing. He had a wild black beard and striking blue eyes, and he would have to bend slightly to go through Cavernhall's short, cavelike halls. He was a mage of healing who served as something of a field medic in some grisly northern rebellion and his name was either Corin or Corbin, though his name was an unimportant detail in Sophitia's memory of the man. What she remembered most, more than his height, more than his beard, was the scream he let out seeing her brother's face. Her sweet brother, who would joust with pig farmers and noblemen alike, who would braid her bracelets of grass as a boy, and who now sent tall, northern mages cowering in disgust.
"A faceless knight, aye." Bagface said with a nod. "I don't have to be pretty to lead men through the Island of Dread. A piece of that smoldering rock should sell for, what? A hundred leagues of land? Two hundred?" He grasped his walking stick and lifted himself up with a grunt, surveying the garden with his one remaining eye. "Knights love gold and they love glory, and the chance to bring back a priceless holy relic will have them forming a neat little line to kiss me on the arse if it means I'll have them on my boat." Bagface chuckled to himself, and even his sheepish sister smiled.
"Two hundred leagues of land? You really are an Edontian. You've already arranged for the boat, I take it?" Sophitia stood up as well, and the two began to walk through one of the garden paths.
"Aye. The Vivian's Mercy, captain calls it. Some pathy sailor living in Rhaetia."
"Have you sent out the letters as well?"
"Just a few days past, one to every major house asking if they've a knight or noble to spare for the holy cause." Bagface snickered again, ducking slightly over a branch.
"You don't think you'll see any exiles or lepers on the way?"
Bagface ducked under another branch, using his walking stick to momentarily guide a separate low-hanging branch away from him. "Perhaps. I might be a cripple, but I think I have a chance against an unarmed, unfed, salty old man. I've heard that those gibbering forest people use boats made from trees to get to the island and hunt them for meat, you know."
Sophitia gave him a disgusted-looking smile and snort of a laugh inherited from her father, covering her face with her palm. "Don't say such things, brother."
"Who knows? Maybe I'll bring a Hiawacan bushman home too. We could use more gardeners."
Ser Byren Hockor
"Wossit like in the black bog?" Russal asked from his horse. He had been Ser Byren's squire for all of two weeks, and already, Byren's patience was growing thin. Russal was a skinny young boy with a thick, round-sounding drawl and sandy blonde hair from Aaldorenfeald, whom he had been trusted with. His horse was a fat, brown speckled mare with a mottled grey and black mane, whereas Ser Byren's was a tall black stallion with thick, unwashed fur clumping around each of its hooves. Its mane spilled over its eyes, which fortunately kept the thick line of yellowing discharge around them hidden, and it was known to occasionally buck and bite -- For what it was worth, the two may as well have been riding through the forest on asses.
"Rather wet." Ser Hockor grumbled. He was a man of four and fourty, and had long-since lost the youthful energy and patience befitting a knight tasked with raising a squire. His candidacy was unknown even to him until a month prior, when he had received a letter from his uncle, the aging Lord Ferris Hockor, that a recent trade pact between Hockor and Ecefrod would be solidified with one of Lord Ecefrod's youngest sons squiring for him.
"Is it true what they say about the water, what with it burning your hand an' all?" Randall asked, tilting his head slightly. His blonde hair drooped to the side as he did, which the boy paid no mind too. He was ten and five, and had a face filled with freckles and a head filled with, mostly, air. He had a weak chin and a baby-faced softness to his features, which somehow angered Byren further, as if he was given the most greenhorned punchable squire as some test of his bloody character. Ser Hockor wasn't known for being handsome, certainly. He had oily black hair that hung down from his head like snakes, and a hairline that had since receded to the top of his head, usually hidden by a cap or strap of cloth. The left side of his face drooped limply ever since he had suffered a fit in his early twenties, causing him to slur his words and lessen his depth perception slightly. He was pockmarked in the face, and muscular and stocky in frame, with a patchy beard that clung to his face like black dirt.
"Some parts, aye."
"Which parts?"
Ser Byren exhaled, pausing for a moment to look out at his surroundings. They were near Edontas' northern edge, with their journey's scenery mostly limited for the past few hours to pine forests and rocks. Sure enough, pine trees were all that Byren could see down the path, which curved up and down further ahead.
"The parts you don't go in."
Bagface has sent out letters looking for interested parties to join him on a quest to the Island of Bread, where he plans to retrieve and divide the fallen shard of Elonar as a holy relic. Ser Hockor is on the road to Kedoren with his newly-appointed squire, Russal Ecefrod.
Conrad Helvetii, Prince of Rhaetia, was angry. He sat slumped in his saddle, rising and falling with the Unicorns quick steps as it paced tirelessly along. The Princes companions, well aware of his mood, rode several lengths behind him, their handsome destier mounts trotting with their heads held high. The group, the Prince included, was a riot of colours as was often the case whenever Rhaetian horsemen rode together. The Prince was resplendent in a blue Tunic with the Helvetii crest stamped firmly in the middle of the chest. His companions, save for one, wore the same symbol on their left sleeve and breast, marking them as bodyguards, or the sigil of a smaller house. The only man who wore the sigil of another great house was Tavian Cotini, his tunic dyed evenly yellow and black with the fleur de lis over his chest.
Conrad dragged himself out of his self imposed bitterness and turned to glance back at Cotini who gave him a sly smile and spurred his horse so that the two rode knee to knee.
"Got your panties out of their knot then?" Tavian asked with a slightly smirk. The two had been friends for nearly eight years, ever since they had met at the Academy. Tavian was the middle son of the Northern House and had nothing to loose from this adventure. Conrad on the other hand had everything to lose, his father having forbid him to do more than accompany his friend to Edontas.
"Aye, more or less. Just annoys me. The old man makes sense but that doesn't mean I have to like!" Conrad slapped his hand down onto the pommel of his saddle as if to make his point. Neither the Unicorn nor the horse did anything more than flick an ear in the direction of the sound before continuing to ignore their riders.
"He isn't King for no reason, we can agree on that." Tavian said tactfully.
"King by the sword. Father says it's a damn sight easier to rule with that as your legacy rather than being tupped out of some royal woman..." Conrad could not resist a chuckle at the look on his sisters face when their father had said those words in front of her. She had turned almost as red as her hair.
"I suspect my old man would agree." Tavian said with a nod. "They've been mates for long enough."
It had been that friendship that had led to Cortini being granted his lands in the north. The King knew the value of a strong ally along the border and made every effort to support his old comrade in arms with whatever he needed. Mind you, he did that with all the Great Houses, one could never know when you would need their help.
"Look on the bright side. I hear the Flitton's have a gorgeous wee thing of a Princess, mayhems you can tup her while the rest of us are suffering the looks of Ser Bagface." Tavian gave Conrad a light punch on the shoulder as he said it.
"Pretty Edontian? From what I've seen of them I'd sooner marry your horse..." Conrad replied gloomily. The Edontians he had seen or met generally came from diplomatic envoys, or could be seen in the markets. On a few occasions he had seen Edontian women in the slave market and nothing about them filled him with anything other than a desire to walk very quickly away.
"You insult my horse!? She won't settle for anything less than a full blooded Pegasus to sire her offspring, no pitiful two legged beast like yourself!" Tavian announced with mock seriousness.
"Why do we talk about these things?" Conrad groaned and then stretched his back. Before either man could continue one of the bodyguard urged his horse forward to join them. He pointed into the distance.
"The Rhaetian Wall m'lord."
Sure enough, what Conrad had mistaken for a low line of hills was now slowly taking on the sharper and harsher shape of a massive wall. It stretched from horizon to horizon, further than he could see at any rate. Here, in the lands of House Cotini, the wall was broken in only a few places, but none could be seen from this vantage point. To their east, its surface almost as unending as the great golden plains, spread a massive lake. Sails dotted the surface as fishing boast darted about, hauling in a generous harvest.
The roadway here was higher than the land around it by some four feet. This served to prevent flooding during the rainy season when the lake was liable to increase in size by almost half again its usual size. This time of year though was considered ow water and a ring of reddish clay could been seen exposed along the edge for several feet.
Conrad had to admit that Rhaetia was a stunning place and he always felt so alive in the great open plains. Here, if one chose, you could ride for days without having to stop or hit an obstacle you could not overcome. There were a few, of course, but that was hardly the point. Only further south did the land begin climbing again into small hills, foothills, and then eventually into mountains.
"We should reach the wall by tower m'lord. Tonight we will stay here." The bodyguard gestured to fortified structure that was fast approaching. It, like everything else in Rhaetia, was tall and graceful. The tower was high enough to easily see the land around it and Conrad could see the signal light on the top glowing brightly behind its iron shutters. He sighed and rubbed his hands together. A drink and a leg of lamb would not go unwanted this evening.
"Announcing his royal eminence King Theris Soneillon, lord and master of Caerulmoste and highest power therein by right of merit." The herald spoke in Common for the convenience of those few visiting dignitaries present in the hall - if it could even be called such. The Royal Auditor's Keep, home to the Perierat Guild of Auditors, had been built within an old church to Eirtu that had been seized centuries prior when order at large had either failed or been unable to pay their taxes. The pews cleared away to make room for numerous long tables and desks. Makeshift renovations had taken place to add several walkways to the walls within the tall room, each supporting wooden shelves packed to the brim with scrolls and books. Near the rear, the old altar had been converted into a raised dais for a throne, though it seemed comically out of place - with auditors and calculators freely roaming up and down the chamber and forlorn, discarded scraps of paper littering the ground the church interior looked more like a trade-house than a court.
Despite the Herald's powerful voice cutting through the din of murmurs and rustling of parchment, few of the building's occupants bothered to so much as glance at their master as he entered. At a mere 21 years, Theris was the youngest ruling king in living memory, and even after three years of rule he remained largely an unknown figure in his own home. Dressed in simple robes bearing only modest silver lining and with only a badge pinned to his breast to signify his stature, he could easily have been mistaken for one of the younger clerks roaming the shelves above. His face was thin with a nervous cast to it, and the unkempt length of a beard still being grown did him no favors - a boy trying to change his appearance in order to be taken seriously, and failing.
Theris trudged across the center of the room, heading for the rear where the throne and the chief auditor's desk resided. Halfway there a calculator carrying a large stack of books nearly ran him down, giving him a nasty look as they veered out of the way just in time. Restraining the urge to apologize, Theris grit his teeth and kept walking. He was used to not being afforded much respect or attention from earlier in his life, but he still found it somewhat ludicrous that having been made King had done nothing for his personal image - unlike certain other individuals.
One such individual awaited him at the large desk at the end of the hall - more ornate than the others with carved details and paneling, it was positioned directly and awkwardly in front of the throne. Sitting there calmly reading through a sheath of papers was Sarapis Soneillon, Chief Auditor for Perierat and presiding over the Royal Keep. A stern if striking woman in her late twenties, with long black hair and an effortless countenance of authority that Theris envied deeply. Her accomplishments were lesser than his, in a purely technical sense - he had a Mathematical Theorem to his name, after all! He had been made King when he was barely eighteen! He had studied with the scholars of Laevo, delving into the secrets of the Astral Realm!
All Sarapis had ever done was manage the accounts of Perierat for a decade as Chief Auditor. Which, as far as everyone in House Soneillon was concerned, was all that mattered. Theris may have been King of all Caerulmoste, but within the paradoxically cramped confines of the massive keep interior Sarapis was a goddess. Within the jumbled and chaotic hierarchy of House Soneillon, she was well respected with far-reaching influence. There were rumors that said she had been offered the throne herself when Alchalchlea stepped down, but had declined because she thought it would be a waste of her time and effort.
"My liege." She greeted Theris as he approached her desk, turning her head look at him evenly - at least for a moment. Not but a moment later, she cast her eyes back down to the sheath of parchment on top of the desk to keep reading even as she spoke to him.
"Chief Auditor." Theris replied, his cheeks starting to burn from the absurdity of his position. Something about speaking with Sarapis specifically always unnerved him. "Please tell me you have good news."
"None." Sarapis replied flatly. "We have been scrounging everywhere we can. Somebody came up with the idea of taxing large gemstones coming in through the Iugulum Canal, but we are still paying in a deficit. We managed to revert a few of the land purchases via default clauses, but a few in particular - most notably the Ecefrod Account, amongst others - are watertight."
"Well, I was prepared to hear worse than that." Theris admitted as he pulled up a wooden stool to rest on. "I wrote to Mountebank and had him prepare several issues of confidence to the various estates. As of last week, fiscal irregularities caused by the Godfall have resulted in several forfeitures and illicit rescinditures regionally with the royal treasury owning all involved liquid assets. The estates will be told their account installments will all be paid in full by their final deadlines, but that several intervening installments may be missed during the interim period while the irregularities are being investigated. Any further questioning on their part will be redirected to the courts, and whoever has been the latest soul thrown to the mob will pick up the claim."
"Sufficient, up until we hit the deadlines. Where, pray tell, do you intend to come up with the bulk tender?" Sarapis finally looked up again from the sheath of papers, a faint frown on her face.
"By finding the source of our irregularities, hopefully." Theris grimaced. "As good a job as our agents have been doing, more direct investigations are going to be needed. Do you have anybody who will not be missed, or that can at least run faster than an arrow?"
Sarapis treated him with a brief and nasty smile. "A few. Be sure to send me the list of accounts to be investigated. I will have a word with the Questor's guildmaster and see if any of their more troublesome members can be put to appropriate mischief in the meantime. I would also like to bring up this, however." Sarapis idly reached into one of the desk's drawers and pulled out a letter - the broken seal marked by the crest of house Flitton.
"Our nervous friends at Laevo - whose anxiety shall heighten considerably once I have had words with them concerning this matter - apparently missed one of the aftereffects of the Godfall. A shard of Elonar apparently escaped Eirtu's grasp and fell onto the Isle of Bread."
Theris raised an eyebrow. "Was it large enough to survive entry?" Sarapis gave him a blank look, and he was once again reminded that he education as an Astronomer was something of a hindrance more oft than not. "I mean, was it big enough to survive impact?"
"There is no telling." Sarapis replied. "I have not even heard rumor of it, 'til recently. I might have not even read this letter, if one of my calculators estimated its potential worth as a jest. The author claims an intact shard might be worth a deed for a hundred leagues of land."
"Unlikely. Elonar's surface tectonics suggest little to no precious minerals of note on its surface - were none, in any case." Theris gestured errantly. "Any remnant would only really have value as religious paraphernalia."
"Actually..." Sarapis' eyes gleamed, and her smiled widened. "In proportion to mass, on the investor's market an intact shard is worth approximately..."
The Chief Auditor rattled off a long string of numbers. Those nearest to her desk looked up at the two in surprise. A passing clerk dropped the bundle of parchments they had been carrying, and then fell over a chair. A calculator who had been taking a small break to eat a sweet-roll choked.
"Per stone in weight?" Theris finally asked, eyes wide, mouth parted in shock.
"Per quarter-stone." Sarapis said, chuckling softly. "Of course, the estimate is based on a few letters of inquiry written to a few individuals of discerning interest. Value will diminish over time as interest wanes...but yes."
Theris was overwhelmed by a number of conflicting emotions. On one hand, seizure of even a small portion of the intact Godshard would go a long way to resolving the issue of debt with the estates the Soneillons had purchased land from - on the other, he felt humiliated. He had spent the better part of two weeks running around attempting to control the damage from the fiasco and contriving the scheme he had conveyed to Sarapis not moments before just to delay the consequences - and then, in the span of perhaps a few days, Sarapis had delivered a potential full-span solution with nearly zero effort on her part.
It just was not fair.
Regaining a small measure of his composure, Theris began to think a bit more carefully. "Have you determined the potential effects of the resulting deflation? in regional markets?"
"Yes. It is nothing I think you want to hear." Sarapis responded dryly. "In brief, acquisition of even a small chunk by one other house would make tracking the irregularities in relation to the gemstones difficult. With two or more houses...it would become nearly impossible."
"Right. Not to mention after paying our debt, they would come out markedly ahead. The plans for the bank would have to be put on hold indefinitely." Theris shook his head. "We need-"
"I have already sent word to Laevo, and the Questor Guildmaster has assembled our very best for the purpose." Sarapis cut Theris off. "Rest assured, the Questors will doubtlessly see to the matter with great efficacy."
"You should NOT have done so without consulting me first!" Theris snarled, abruptly slamming a hand down on Sarapis' desk. "This is a matter that could have the Church calling on me at the Island of Will! How dare you go behind my back like this!"
"It was either then and certain or now and...less certain." Sarapis finally replied after a moment of consideration. "The Astronomers will need time to prepare the necessary materials and transport them, not to mention the precautions they will have to take considering the risk to their artisan. The Questors need time to make arrangements, and though oarboats make quicker time than a mounted party it is...quite a long way to go from the mouth of the Expanse to the Isle of Bread."
"I know all of this better than you!" Theris vented. "You will be bearing the consequences for this should things turn sour...and we will be discussing this further at a later time. Do not leave the keep anytime in the next week." He rose gruffly from the stool he had been sitting on. "Now I need to go and begin my own preparations - since you did not see fit to so much as send a letter or courier to me before making such a bold decision. I will return later."
Theris Soneillon stormed out of the Keep. Sarapis' gaze flickered with uncertainty for a moment as she watched him go, before she simply shook her head and returned to reading through the sheath of papers before her.
Theris and Sarapis obliquely refer to a whole bunch of things that make absolutely no sense out of context and will only become apparent later on.
The Ford was a fortress in disarray, a castle that seemed to be half-finished, its walls being built by a crew half as large and less than half as competent as would be expected, their wages paid by a family that only half cared. The sorry state of the seat of the long beleaguered House Ecefrod was not a matter that bothered the Ecefrods even slightly; they would, in fact, have preferred that The Ford not exist at all. This castle, perched upon the north side of the leisurely flowing River Kempedson, was not the stronghold whose visage of tall towers and imposing walls flew upon the House's banners, and whose name was told of in their words. The namesake of the Ecefrod's words, "Anwig is Ours", and House Ecefrod's ancestral seat, had been lost to the family for generations, dastardly stolen by the conniving and virtueless sons of bastards and whores that was House Bernaccia. The fiends dwelled on the other side of the river, holding court in the castle that had once been House Ecefrod's, and constantly plotting, the Lord Ecefrod imagined, to steal even more of his family's land and history away. Through it was a river as calm as any, and flowed through the most fertile and pleasant region of the kingdom, the River Kempedson was the most well-guarded and hotly contested boundary in Aaldorenfeald. A gentle stream in a gentle land, polluted forever by a single drop of bad blood.
A carriage from the nearby hamlet trundled along the road, stopping by the half-finished portcullis of the castle's surrounding walls - if walls they could even be called. A figure wearing red-dyed cloth and adorned with a round embroidered cap stepped down out from its interior, carrying with some effort a small strongbox of solid cast iron. The driver, having been paid in advance, barely even waited until both of the man's feet had hit the ground before he struck out to his horses and the carriage departed. The red-clothed man looked back after it as it went with a forlorn stare before sighing and trudging through the rain-laden mud leading up to the main gate.
Spotting a swarthy-looking laborer resting under the portcullis' curve, the man called out in accented Common. "Hail, good man. This would be...castle Ecefrod I take it?" The man briefly attempted and failed to keep his incredulous tone from carrying through as he looked up at the underwhelming, half-finished keep. "I am Civil Auditor by authority of the King of Caerulmoste, Roden Husch. I have business of some import with your lord."
The worker opened one eye and aimed it at the man in red robes, the other eye kept shut so he could continue on half resting. "Nope, this ain't castle Ecefrod. That's up the river aways, and on the south side. Won't find any Ecefrods there, though, if that's what you're lookin' for." The man then stood, rubbing his eye and then stroking his chin as he thought to himself. "Well, s'pose you could find some bones of 'em. Gotta be a few thousand years old by now though, or however long. If it's the lord you're hoping to see, he's here. Probably someone can show you the way inside. Say, you're sure you're not a priest? You got the red robes and everything."
"Priest?" Roden blinked, twice, before it clicked. "Oh! No, I am afraid not. Red has been used in our uniforms since the Auditor's Guild was established. You will know the difference - our cloth, like mine here - very dark hue of red, yes? Nearly brown in the dark. The Red Brothers usually wear much brighter colors."
"Right, right. Well, I suppose in you go, then. I'm not supposed to be the one guarding the gate, the man with the sword's taking a leak I think. Don't think he'll mind I sent you in though, I'll just say you were a Red Brother. Don't think he knows crap about which hue's which; man told me I got black hair when clearly it's brown, see? Just a darker shade. I was even a blond when I was little, my mum's always told me." The black-haired man scratched himself, dusting off a bug or two.
"Yes, yes. I suppose that's alright." Roden waved in half-acknowledgement and impatience. "Many thanks for your assistance." He moved on, trudging through the mud up to the keep, hauling his strongbox along with him. Approaching a smaller doorway - one with an actual iron-barred door! - he set the strongbox down in the mud and hammered on the barrier near its small peep-slot.
After a moment, the slot opened, revealing an angry looking eye. "Nobody's born or died. Fuck off."
"I am NOT a priest!" Roden replied quickly. "I am an Auditor! From Caerulmoste! I'm here to discuss estate business with your-"
The guard on the other side interrupted, closing the slot again and unlocking the door to swing it open. He was dressed in rather rudimentary garb for a man charged with guarding nobility, looking more like a slightly-more-intimidating-than-usual peasant than a man who was ready to lay down his life for his . "Right, right, one of you. They told me you blokes come by sometimes, didn't know when it'd be. I just got here the other day, the pay's piss but piss is better than shit, aye? What do they pay 'auditors'?"
"Uh. Not much? Just travel stipends, and we get bread and board at guildhouses." Roden answered nervously - a half-truth, in that while what he had relayed was technically true it omitted the minor detail that said bread and board was rather ostentatious in comparison to the standards of the lowly guard. "Can you take me to your lord? I have important business to discuss with him." He hauled up the strongbox, knocking twice on its head to emphasize the statement.
"Course. Right along." The guard led Roden inside, then took him up down the hall and up a few stairs and again, onto the third floor. It seemed to be the only area of the castle that was fully finished and decorated. Tapestries adorned the halls, most notably a large one near the stairs, depicting the House Ecefrod banner—the lost castle, Anwig, on a black field. The guard, uninterested in the decorations, was about to knock on a door to the right, but paused suddenly, and looked to the door on the left, and then back to the auditor. "You're here about money, right?"
"I cannot disclose my purpose here beyond my need to discuss it with Lord Ecefrod or else another member of his house. Contract regulations, sorry." Roden said, adding an upturned glance and an apologetic air to his statement.
"Right, so money then. You want the left door."
The man knocked twice, then departed down the hall and back to the ground floor, leaving only Roden to hear the ensuing, "Yes, come in!" from a decidely feminine voice. He tentatively secured the strongbox in the crook of his arm, inadvertantly staining the hem of his tunic with mud - he swore lightly, dropping the strongbox to the floor with a massive mettalic clang. He swore again and bent to pick it up, securing it in the crook of his arm again before finally pushing open the door and entering.
"What was that commotion?" the Lady of House Ecefrod inquired, seated in an elegantly crafted wooden chair next to a desk of similar quality, the latter covered in various neatly organized papers. The Lady's fair skin was in sharp contrast to the dark black of her dress, and she was accompanied by a much more plainly dressed woman in a dark grey gown, standing in the corner, her hands folded respectfully in front of her.
"My apologies, my lady. I had some difficulty with this blasted strongbox." Roden nervously indicated the offending deadweight. "I am Civil Auditor Roden Husch, by authority of the King of Caerulmoste. Would you be Lady Ecefrod?"
"Indeed I would." she replied, confidently, standing upright and stepping towards Roden, wearing a warm and sincere looking smile. "Lady Anice Ecefrod, wife of Lord Edwin Ecefrod. You are here to discuss financial matters relating to the allotment of land that your organization has purchased from this household, correct?"
"Yes, my lady. There is a secondary matter I must need also discuss, but the contract and account in relation to your estate is of the utmost importance to House Soneillon." Roden answered respectfully. "If it is no trouble, may I set this down somewhere more...tractable? I do apologize for the mud, it has had a rough time of the trip here."
"Of course. It's no trouble at all. You choose to come here by carriage, I take it, rather than along the Kempedson?"
Roden choose to set the strongbox down on a nearby table - thoughtfully removing the linen cloth from its top before doing so - in order to give him time to think of a polite answer. Saying that the Soneillons did not think either he or the Ecefrods were worth the expenditure of sending a Carrack along the coast would not have gone over well. "I happened to already be passing through Aaldorenfeald, my lady, from foreign lands on business. I was sent letter by courier and rerouted to retrieve and deliver these documents, as well as to see to the affairs of our contract - House Soneillon is always looking for the most ergonomic solution, as it were." He retrieved a key from his breast pocket and fitted it to the strongbox's darkened lock, and then spent several moments twisting a circular wheel-lock beside it before opening the device with the sound of popping springs and grinding clicks. Within were two long scrolls, sealed with wax and both wrapped around formal wooden pens.
Roden retrieved the first of the two and broke the seal, unfurling the scroll and squinting in the dim light at the writing therein. "Ah, I do imagine your...companion here is permitted to be privy to this discussion?" He nodded to the sitting woman in the grey gown.
"There are two individuals in this room that I trust, Roden. One is myself, and the other is not you. I have a question to ask of you, auditor; did you approach The Ford from the west, or the east?"
"From the West, my lady." Roden answered nervously, stiffling the swell of resentment from Anice's barbed response but wary of where she was heading.
"What business did you have in Kempedson lands, that you happened to be there before you were tasked to deliver this payment? Has House Soneillon also purchased territories from the Kempedsons?"
"Ah, I had no business with the Kempedsons, truly, my lady. I had business in..." He paused, visibly nervous.
The Lady seemed increasingly disturbed. "Were you in Anwig, perhaps? Treating with the Bernaccias?"
"Kedoran, my lady." Roden blurted out. "As it were, House Soneillon did purchase some land out in the tundras."
"You rode through the Black Woods to reach us, then? House Soneillon must have great confidence in the many guards which must have accompanied you. How many were there? Did you catch a glimpse of any black wolves?"
"My lady, perhaps, if it pleases you, we should focus on the matter of your estate?" Roden deflected, turning the scroll in his hands emphatically. "I can assure you that the trip here was rather uneventful, and not worthy of retelling to your fair self."
"Neither the scroll in your hand nor the fairness of my self are of great import to me, Roden. At least, not of half as much importance as other matters. I will ask you a question—a rather simple questions—and you will answer it truthfully. I will not punish honesty, I assure you. Now, how is it that you came to approach the Ford?"
"...From the South, my lady." Roden replied with a faint sigh and a visible wince.
Lady Anice turned her nose up, indignant but satisfied. "The buffoons couldn't have even bothered to put you on a ship. They must have great respect for House Ecefrod in Caerulmoste. They would have sent a ship for the Bernaccias, I suppose? But enough. The scroll, give it to me."
"It was intended that I read it to...uh..." Roden shrank under Anice's withering gaze and relented, proferring the scroll for her. Its contents were brief, but overstated with a profundity of doubtlessly unnecessary legal terminology.
Anice scanned the contents of the scroll, her gaze narrowing noticeably as her eyes darted over its pompous verbosity. It seemed to her that she was being told, in more words than was necessary, that she wasn't going to be paid.
"The assets with which The Ford was to be reimbursed for the lands we have offered to your organization have been stolen?" the Lady summarized, staring at Roden.
"Er...I am given to understand they have also been recovered, your lady. They are being with-held as evidence, for the time being." Roden said nervously. After a faint pause, he added, "You are correct, yes."
"Why? What purpose does holding these items serve, other than to delay my payment?"
"Well, my lady, these were no sundry items - each one had considerable worth, and they were stolen by a number of individuals of some repute within local market guilds you understand - there have been charges of corruption and embezzlement, conspiracy against the public welfare - very messy business. Lots of paperwork to examine for discrepancies and correct." Roden replied. His face had been gradually draining of blood since Anice had first spoken, and he was positively ashen-faced now.
"I see now why they didn't bother to get you a room on a ship." Lady Anice commented, scornfully. "All you were delivering was a letter, informing me that I am not to be receiving what I am owed."
"My lady, House Soneillon WILL be paying you the full of what was promised in your contract - on time." Roden's voice had taken on a reticent quality. "These interim instalments will all be paid out, all at once, as soon as the assets are made available again - which they surely will be, prior to the deadline."
Lady Anice was indignant, and looked at Roden with contempt. "House Soneillon are traitorous liars that no doubt consort with the fiends occupying Anwig. Until the payment is received, in full, and delivered by an envoy who arrived BY SHIP and does not track mud into my castle, the territories purchased by the Soneillons are foreclosed upon. If the deadline comes and I do not have what is owed to me, and more, in recompense for the inconvenience, they will be auctioned off to the free peasants. I will furthermore be ensuring that King Grindan of House Osgar is aware of the conflict that House Soneillon has initiated here."
"My lady, House Soneillon harbors no ill will against House Ecefrod, and I can assure you as a Civil Auditor - under the King of Caerulmoste, Theris Soneillon - that there was and is no intent of hostility on the part of our contract and your estate." Catching the look that Anice gave him, he stumbled over his next few words. "I-uh-I...There is...I mean, I will be certain...to convey your proposed ammendment to the contract...in a favorable light?" He was trembling faintly, utterly cowed by Anice's imposing countenance.
Lady Anice calmed herself, straightening her dress and breathing deeply. She then glanced down to the floor for a moment, behind the auditor. "You have tracked both mud and lies into the Ford. You shall leave only one trail of each. Take off your boots."
Colored abruptly returned to Roden's face, turning it from ash to deep maroon. "...By your command...my lady..." He grit his teeth and raised both his legs, one by one, yanking each of his fine leather boots - each tastefully embroidered with ornate, interlocking circles - and set them by the doorframe. He did not dare to ask if he could sit down in order to remove them. Never had he been more thankful of the thick, woolen socks that came as part of his Auditor's uniform.
Opening a drawer in her desk, Anice withdrew a pouch and empited out a handful of coins from it, selecting the appropriate amount before placing the pouch and the rest of its contents back in the drawer. At the same moment, her servant in the corner took Roden's boots, standing where they were placed. "Here," the Lady offered to Roden, outstretching her hand and speaking in much a conciliatory tone. "This shall pay for your voyage to Caelrulmoste. Let it never be said that House Ecefrod does not respect its guests."
Roden inhaled deeply, gathering up the tattered remnants of his courage. "My lady, I am most grateful, but I cannot leave until we have discussed the matter enclosed within the second scroll." He gestured to the strongbox where the second rolled parchment lay, seal unbroken.
Anice's mouth was slightly agape. She considered a great many different things she could say, but finally settled on, "Proceed."
Breathing a sigh of relief, Roden retrieved the second scroll and broke the seal, unfurling it and briefly examining its contents before speaking.
"The Royal Auditor's Guild has been made aware of several fiscal discrepancies within the regional markets of Ecefrod and the surrounding territories, most prominently in connection to your own assets and agents. These irregularities are understood to be impacting the state of legal trade at a detriment, and thus Chief Auditor and advisor to the King, Mountebank Soneillon, is requesting that the accounts of the Ecefrod estate be made available to me for auditing for the purpose of rendering these irregularities as known quantities." He looked up from the scroll to Anice in anticipation.
The Lady laughed. Her teeth, perfectly white, flashed into Roden's view as she sat herself back into her chair, trying to restrain her giggling. The servant girl, now standing behind Roden and holding his mud-encrusted boots, looked more nervous than amused.
"Not only does House Soneillon not intend to pay me, but they intend, in fact, to audit what little they have already given? Does the state of this castle infer to you, auditor, that I have been fixing my books? Cohorting with banditry to enrich myself? I can assure you that if I were fencing for smugglers or some such other nonsense, I would spend the ill-gotten gold first and foremost on making this fort proper." Anice's expression changed, turning again towards anger. "The Royal Auditor's Guild of Caerulmoste has no authority in Aaldorenfeald, and I do not intend to give them any. If Monetebank Soneillon wishes to inspect my finances, he can come here himself, in a boat, and he would best bring an army with him if he intends to succeed."
"I will be sure to see that your sentiments are conveyed to him in time, my lady." Roden replied, and purely by reflex - he found himself unable to refrain in time - a touch of exasperation edged into his voice.
"Do you have a third scroll hidden somewhere, auditor?" Anice asked sarcastically.
"No, my lady, that is all." He replied.
"Excellent. You will notice that I paid you twice as much as was necessary to afford a voyage back to Caerulmoste. You will have a travelling companion." The Lady gestured to woman standing behind Roden, in her grey gown, holding the auditor's boots. The woman seemed as shocked or more at this announcement as the auditor surely would be.
"This is...most unorthadox, my lady." Roden protested. "I am merely a Civil Auditor, all I will be able to do is relay a report on up to a Royal Auditor - I will be reassigned the moment I reach the first paystation in Caerulmoste. Your..." He grasped for the word. Lady-in-waiting? Associate? Partner? Daughter, for all he knew? "Er...she will hardly be able to affect anything of note by accompanying me."
Anice interjected. "Mountebank and his family do not have the time or inclination to so much as hear back from the dynasty that have just slandered? I do not have any great care for your particular title, Roden. Tell whomever instructs you to go elsewhere that it has been expessly requested—no, say 'demanded'—by House Ecefrod of the Ford... hells, House Ecefrod of Anwig, that you and my associate are to have audience with Mountebank."
"Mountebank is not even in Caerulmoste at the present time, my lady." Roden said, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists, struggling to remain civil. "Furthermore, I am a servant to the King of Caerulmoste and no other. I will convey your sentiments as a courtesy, but that is all I am permitted - or will even contemplate - doing."
"If that is the case, never mind the girl, and never mind you. You may keep the spare coins as a courtesy. I will be arriving in Caerulmoste myself, to answer for the Soneillons' indiscretions against my House personally. Right after I have sent word to King Grindan of my intentions, of course."
It became apparent to Roden at that moment that this discourse had gone rather precariously astray. "My lady - though I dare not presume you act with anything other than the full assent of Lord Ecefrod, perhaps we should both discuss the matter with him? I will point out, the contract was originally signed in his name and his position to propose potential ammendments to it is considerably stronger."
The Lady smiled again, more widely than ever. "I find that to be a wonderful idea, but I do not suspect that you will agree with me for very long. Let us. After you."
Mentally celebrating at having narrowly averted a political disaster in the making, Roden filed both of the scrolls back into the strongbox - and then locked it out of habit before securing it in the crook of his arm. "Very well, my lady. Ah. I am afraid I am not aware of his Lordship's current situation...?" He asked as he opened the door out of the parlor.
Anice stood out of her chair, following Roden into the hallway. "The door immediately in front of you. On the right as you entered the floor. Only knock once."
"Very well, my lady." Roden turned to the second door and knocked loudly, once. Inwardly, he was grateful that the forceful woman had agreed at all. Hopefully Lord Ecefrod would be more reasonable - even if not an innately sensible person, what were the odds he was anywhere near as bad as his awful wife?
The man that opened the door for Roden and Anice did not entirely resemble a human. He was humanoid, to be sure, and had no ancestry of fairies or giants or other some nonsense, but could easily have passed for the latter. He was nearly seven feet tall, his head entirely bereft of hair, all of it having seemed to have migrated to his face, where his poorly kept beard had taken over. His right eye was not there, an empty socket that was kept unfilled by any baubles and uncovered by any patches of cloth, at least indoors. To say he was large would be putting it quite lightly, as would saying he was gigantic. He had the appearance of a man who had fought with a bear, only to become one. His lone eye, grey and only half functional, stared down at Roden, seeing a spot of space coloured in flesh tones sitting atop an equally blurry, larger space, coloured some shade of red. Lord Edwin Ecefrod was not overly fond of visitors, but he had enormous respect for the Red Brothers, which he understandably assumed Roden to be.
"What business do you have with me, Brother?" Edwin asked, in a tone as ragged and scratchy as it was deep and booming.
Roden, for his part, briefly locked at Edwin's chest. Then, realizing what he was looking at, looked up into the Lord's face. "Oh." He said simply, mouth agape. Then, recovering slightly, he tried again. "Er. I am afraid I am not with the Red Brothers, your Lordship. I am a Civil Auditor under the authority of the King of Caerulmoste."
Edwin's stance, expression and tone did not change in the least. "What is a Civil Auditor under the authority of the King of Caerulmoste doing at my door?"
"Err...your wife, Lady Anice, has become most displeased with a certain development...pertaining to our contract...and wishes to propose an ammndment to it, but you are the original signee..." Roden shifted uncomfortably under the gaze of the giant of a man, his neck starting to ache from craning upwards.
The Lord seemed slightly displeased, annoyed at being bothered with this sort of matter. "Lady Anice handles these matters. Her word is mine. What amendments did you find so contemptable to bother me with?"
"I believe she wishes to foreclose on the purchased lands in response to a momentary default by House Soneillon, contrary to the contract's terms." Roden glanced at Anice. "Er. Would that be accurate, my lady?"
Anice's grin had not faded. "Yes." she replied, simply.
Edwin looked at his wife as she responded, then turned his eye back on the auditor, scanning over him. Even with his poor sight, he could tell the man was not wearing shoes. "Why is a barefoot man from the swamps, working for a foreign king, not only in Aaldorenfeald, but in my home, at my door, questioning the legitimacy of my prerogative as Lord to allow my wife to handle the less important of my affairs?"
"Only because the contract was signed with your name, my lordship! I did not know better!" Roden cried out.
Bored, Edwin ended the dispute. "My wife's word is mine. Whatever amendments she is proposing to whatever contracts she has signed have my consent."
'This is unfair.' Roden thought as he simply nodded in response.
The Lord of House Ecefrod nodded back. He moved to close the door, but stopped at the last moment. He then opened it again, fully, and turned his eye one last time to the auditor. He spoke differently this time, a foreboding tint to his words. "Tell me, auditor. Did you approach the Ford from the west, or the east?"
"From the South. I swear." Roden's voice cracked.
"Through the lands of House Bernaccia?"
"I...suppose I must have? Yes." Roden tried.
Edwin nodded, calmly, and spoke one final remark as he closed the door. "Best to come from the East. Safe travels."
Roden turned back to Anice as the door slammed shut. "Alright then. I feel obligated to warn you in advance, the Guild of Auditor will likely take this as a sign of no-confidence of your part. They will also be having words with King Osgar if you try to force an amendment to the contract." While Roden's voice was calm and his words clear, he looked dazed and out of sorts - he was not even looking directly at Anice, and had a certain slackness about his character. He had even forgotten to address her properly.
The Lady shrugged, carelessly. "It's not about the coin so much. I simply wish for this house to be respected, and your organization have shown us none."
"We have treated you no differently than we have every other House we deal with!" Roden exclaimed, snapping back to reality and finally looking back fully at Anice.
"If you always track mud into the chambers of ladies with which you entreat, insult the wives and leadership abilities of lords with which you entreat, and fail to address in proper manner all those nobles with which you entreat, I have serious doubts about the long-term sustainability of your organization."
Holding back a snarl, Roden took a moment to compose himself before responding. "My lady, if you have no further need of me, I shall make haste to convey your wishes to the Guild of Auditors proper and to also express your displeasure with the current arrangement of our joint contract."
"Safe travels."
Roden left. As he trudged back across the rain-sodden turf outside the keep, slime soaking his socks, it then occurred to him.
Lady Anice had given him twice as much coin than he actually needed to return to Caerulmoste.
Enough, say, to take a detour to the hold the Soneillons had purchased and forewarn them of Anice's intent before she could act.
"Safe travels indeed you witch." He muttered, his pace quickening as he approached the portcullis, going as fast as he could while carrying the strongbox.
I don't know, I suppose you just have to read it? A lot, but also not much.
Despite being part of the north, what Byren and Russal had seen of Kedoren's countryside had been quite pleasant. The freeholders, having a warmer land than their cousins across the windwall, were said to be a warmer people as a result, which the two travellers could not doubt. The previous night, Byren and Russal had taken shelter from a storm in the keep of Lord Parhall. Though they originally had meant to simply stand under a roof until the storm had passed, the lord of Greybarrow insisted on giving the two beds for the night in the loft of his stablehouse, reinvigorating them with thick northern stew and ale in exchange for a night of tales from Byren's travels in Edontas, or as Lord Parhall called it, the south.
Now miles from the hearty stew of Greybarrow and its lord's heartier laugh, the two were crossing through the city of Highcliff, meeting the eyes of a few gawking peasants murmuring at the unfamiliarity of the knight's shield.
It was not before long that the two reached the gates of the Blackfort. True to its name, it was a dark, solemn castle, unpleasantly squat and shadowy in the light of day. Ser Byren dismounted his horse, taking a few steps to wave a greeting at the guard stationed at the top of the wall.
"What business brings you here, ser?" The guardsman half-shouted and half-inquired from his wall. He was an old bearded man, the sort who Byren imagined had little patience to be shouting at a knight he had never met. Already, things were not as promising as he had hoped.
"We do not come for business dealings, we are knights!" Russal enthusiastically shouted in response, turning to Byren with a cheeky grin as if he had said something particularly clever. The Edontian gave him a grave look, curling the side of his face not in a permanent slump, before craning his neck back up to the guard.
"Excuse my squire. We've been sent by the King of Edontas to retrieve his nephew Oren."
"Oren Lugain is being held in the Blackfort while he awaits trial for King Tyndall's disappearance. Do you mean to tell me you have come to aid his escape, fleeing from this trial?" The guard asked, winded and out of breath from shouting the long string of words.
Ser Byren paused for a moment, realizing he had never actually been told why this Oren fellow needed someone to bring him from Kedoren.
"In this matter, King Valdemar requests that his nephew await trial in Edontas."
"His request has been denied. I wish you safe travels on your return to Edontas, ser." The guard shouted, before promptly turning and vanishing from Byren's sight.
Byren pursed his lips together, almost physically chafing at the courtly pleasantries that came with a knight's speech.
"Look here, mate." Byren shouted, cupping the side of his mouth to project his voice even further. "I've been on horseback watching this green babe for three days. I don't intend to storm this bloody castle, but I don't intend to be turned away either. Is there a captain or commander of the guards I might have council with?"
"Oren Lugain is the captain of the guards, ser." The faceless voice called back.
"Then who commands the guards now?"
Without warning, the porticulis began to creak and heave, slowly raising with loud clicks of a chain. In front of him stood the guards of the blackfort, lead by a tall, beardless man with short red hair and pale green eyes. He wore the two-headed eagle of Tyndall as a silver pin on his cloak, which gleamed visibly even from the distance between he and Byren.
"I do."
Byren nodded, taking three lumbering steps forward. "I am ser Byren Hockor of The Black Bog, and this is my squire, Russal Ecefrod."
The captain nodded politely, tilting his head just far back enough to look down at the Edontian. "I am Ser Bertrand Arren, Captain of Blackfort's Guard. I have been told you mean to rescue my predecessor from bondage." He said, drawing his sword calmly. Byren took two steps back.
"Well m'lord, no reason that means we have to kill each other."
Bertrand nodded with a look on his face as if he were mulling over every option. "Of course we don't have to kill one another, though in Kedoren, demanding a prisoner's release is far from something you'd suggest over a cup of tea. What say you, Edontian?" He squared his shoulders eagerly, slowly wrapping his second hand around the blade
Byren looked at Bertrand, and back to the many guards flanking them, and finally to the mouse-faced old man he had originally spoken to, who he realized was at Bertrand's side, smiling coyly.
"I don't mean to get me or my squire killed. If it's a duel that you want, we'll settle that with terms, inside of the castle," Byren said, hoping to goad the hotheaded young man out of fighting him right there. "Besides, if we fight here your guards will have my guts the moment I lay a hand on you."
There was another pause, until Bertrand sheathed his sword. "Very well. If you are to win, you may take our prisoner, and if I am to win, you'll join him. Is this agreeable?" He asked in a pompous tone. The guards behind him turned and entered the castle, and Byren motioned for Russal to take reigns of their horses and lead them inside.
"Aye. I'll agree to that."
Flanked by a duo of guards, Rurik walked briskly through the Blackfort's narrow corridors, frowning as usual. Flickering torches illuminated the darkened hallways and the sounds of his footsteps and those of his men was the only thing to be heard. Every day seemed to bring a new surprise and today had been no different. Some southern knight had arrived earlier today, demanding Oren's release. As a result, a duel was about to take place, between Betrand Arren and this Ser Byren. Truth be told, Rurik wouldn't mind if the duel had been to the death - he absolutely loathed Bartrand, but was pressured to appoint him as the new captain of the guard.
He made his way outside, where a small crowd had already gathered. As was the custom, the duel would take place during the night, when the Moons could bear witness to what transpired in the mortal realm. Well there was only one Moon now, but Rurik was certain that Eirtu would still be interested in the favoured sons of his wife.There was a circle of brightly-burning torches in the centre of the courtyard, around which nobles and soldiers had gathered. Rurik couldn't help but notice that despite the strange knight's appearance, not that many people were present. A lot of nobles from Mir's court had returned to their lands following the Godfall, leaving only those loyal to Rurik, mostly northern lords, in the Blackfort.
Rurik's eyes glanced up at the dark walls, where he could barely make out the silhouettes of the guards lining them. A duel was a duel, but should anything unexpected occurr, they had their crossbows at the ready. Behind him, there was a balcony overlooking the grounds, which was normally the place where the King stood, but Rurik was not king yet, so he had to watch among the others. As he made his way closer to the crowd, the nobles parted and let him pass, so he could stand as close to the fighters as possible. Rurik said nothing, but surveyed the foreigners carefully,
The knight seemed pale for a pathy, with a ghoulish face and cheap-looking leather in place of armor, while his squire had the look of an Aaldoren. Naturally, Rurik's gaze focused on the knight, whom he measured, surveying him from head to toe. He'd seen a lot of warriors in his life and this man had the look of an experienced swordsman, Betrand would have his hands full. The Edontian's shield bore three snarling black fish, covered in dozens of tiny streaks of darkness where the shield had been dented and the paint had chipped. Even at his distance, Rurik saw the short, shining remnants of an arrowhead embedded in the wood. Across from him, Bertrand's metal shield shone in the moonlight, with the crest of Arren; over a lake and on a field of green, two towers stood proud and undented, having been polished by his squire prior to the battle.
Betrand was getting ready for the duel, seeminly confident in his abilities to see him through. Rurik hated the man, but he couldn't deny that he was skilled with the sword, it would be an interesting fight to watch for sure. A small smile crept across Rurik's face, watching that fool struggle would be a delight. He felt the eyes of the court on him. Rurik was not king yet, but as the Prince it fell to him to oversee this duel. He raised his hand to silence the crowd, drowning out the murmurs and hushed whispers. Rurik opened his mouth to speak, his booming voice carrying over the courtyard.
"We are gathered tonight to bear witness to the duel between Ser Betrand Arren and.. " he trailed off for a moment, trying to recall the knight's name "Ser Byren Hockor. The stakes are the following: should Ser Byren win, Oren Lugain will be free to leave with him." Rurik paused, letting that sink in.
He ground his teeth, Betrand was insolent to have made such an offer without first consulting him, the southern swine didn't respect his authority! It was done though, an offer had been made, it would be shameful to back out now. He continued:
"On the other hand, should Ser Betrand win, Ser Byren and his squire will remain here as my guests for an unspecified period of time." Rurik motioned to his side "Sister Greta, under the light of the Moons, I entrust this duel to you."
A grey-haired, stick-thin Black Sister made her way to the front, she looked frail, but walked with a dignified step. Rurik had known her since his time in Windhold and she had become a trusted advisor to him over the years. She was renowned for her wisdom and knowledge of Elonar's ways and as the eldest Sister in the Blackfort, she would act as Eirtu's witness. Rurik stepped back and let her speak.
"Brave knights, please step forward." the woman said, her voice trembled, but she made an effort to be heard.
Bertrand took his sword and shield from his squire, twirling the thin one-handed blade once to warm up his wrist in a flash of moonlight. The Edontian, who had been sitting as if he were waiting, then took his sword from his beckoning squire's scabbard, shaking his free mailed hand when the boy tried to hand him the shield, mumbling something into the blonde youth's ear.
Once the knights were before her, Greta spoke "We stand under the watchful gaze of the Moons..." despite Elonar's disappearance, Greta wasn't willing to break with tradition "show yourselves worthy of them. Be brave, be strong and do not falter! No lives will be lost tonight, for the duel will continue until blood is drawn."
The Black Sister uttered a short prayer amidst the silence, finishing by touching her left cheek, then her chest. The gesture, a common sign in Kedoren, was imitated by everyone in the crowd. With that out of the way, they were ready to proceed, Kedorians disliked ceremonies and by their standards this was already a long one.
"May Eirtu grant you his might! Begin!" Greta did her best to muster her voice, which managed to carry over the silent courtyard.
Immediately, Bertrand began offensively, starting at the Edontian headfirst as if he intended to run him through at that very spot, bellowing out a loud warcry that caused Sister Greta, and most of the audience for that matter, to give a jump of surprise. Byren sidestepped, pacing backwards with all of the urgency as if he were backing up from a spreading pool of spilled wine to keep his slippers unspoiled, already seemingly tired of Bertrand's knightly theatricism.
Betrand turned to Byren's gaze, spinning his blade in the moonlight once more, this time upwards and towards the Edontian's torso. Byren stepped back once again, parrying the sword with a whiplike slash, bouncing Bertrand's blade back down. He made a quick thrust at Bertrand's chest, though this only succeeded in making the northerner push back with his shield, visibly angered that he had been pushed into a defensive position, for all of his armor, by a shieldless man in leathers.
The Edontian stepped a few more paces back, withdrawing a sheathed dagger from his belt and moving into a stiffer stance, aiming both weapons at Bertrand. If the crowd had been quiet before, it was silent now. Bertrand made his way towards him, swiping widely to the left, swinging with both hands in an attempt to disarm his lighter-armed opponent, who danced backwards to avoid him yet again. Bertrand swung right, and again left, and again right, and each time, Ser Hockor took another few steps curving backwards.
"You afraid, pathy?" Bertrand growled, raising his shield. Ser Byren said nothing. The northerner threw his shield on the ground with a huff, grasping the hilt of his blade and swiping upwards once more, this time with both hands, narrowly missing the Edontian with the speed gained by his newfound lightness. With his opponent's sword now high in the air held by both hands, Byren dropped his dagger to the floor, and in a flash of motion, struck Bertrand in the throat with his mailed fist.
Bertrand, who had intended to practically cleave Byren in two with his downswing, stepped back, instinctively dropping his sword to grab his throat with both hands. Byren threw his other sword down, and just as quickly as he had first hit the man, struck him in the nose with a vicious hook. Bertrand spun as he fell, making a crash as his heavy armor brought him to the floor rather than staggering backwards. His bloodied face was twisted in pain, and he grabbed his nose in a half-attempt at stopping the bleeding.
"Under the light of the Moons, I declare Ser Byren Hockor as the winner!" the sister's voice broke the defeaning silence.
Rurik grunted, a mix of emotions swirling through his head. He was both pleased at Arren humiliating himself, but angry that this beggarly knight had made a fool of the Blackfort's captain of the guard! Bertrand had qutie neatly fallen into the older man's trap, like some damned squire. This was the problem with Freeholders like Arren, they had grown soft and arrogant, forgetting the practicality a true Kedorian needed to possess. Ask any man who's been at war and they'd tell you not to rush in blindly at an older, more experienced fighter! Alas, Bertrand and his ilk spent more time playing at war, in tourneys and duels, and didn't know this simple fact.
He'd deal with them later. For now, he stepped towards the fighters.
"Kedorians honour their deals. It was agreed that we'd release Oren Lugain and it shall be so!" his gaze fixed Ser Byren. "But the hour is late and we will deal with these matters in the morning. In the mean time, I invite you and your squire to sup with me." his voice made it sound more like a fact, rather than an invitation.
Byren, who had been picking up his sword and dagger, gave the prince a nod. "It would be an honor, my lord."
"Good." a wry smile crossed his face "We have a tradition here in Kedoren. Normally a duel ends when you take the life of your opponent, but since this one was until first blood, you may take something else of Ser Betrand. The choice is yours." he gestured at the bloodied knight, who was struggling to get up to his feet.
Byren shook his head, giving an almost sympathetic glance to the duel's loser. "That won't be necessary m'lord. I've already taken the piss out of him." A few members of the court gave a laugh, none moreso than Russal.
Rurik nodded, impassive. "As you wish." he gestured to some of the soldiers nearby "My men will escort you to your rooms, where you may leave your belongings. After that, we will talk."
The Tyndall troops hurried to obey their lord's command, gathering around the two foreigners and politely, but firmly, insisting that they move along. Rurik turned around and walked back towards the keep, with the rest of the court following suit. The remaining guardsmen returned to their posts, while Ser Betrand was carried away by some of his men. Although he couldn't determine what exactly made him feel this way, Rurik was certain that something was about to begin.
“They couldn’t pick a more wretched place to meet in?” Owyn grumbled under his breath.
The humble Aaldoren inn was indeed a sorry sight, especially after the splendour Owyn had grown accustomed to in Rhaetia. The building seemed to be cobbled together from whatever wood the owner could find, while most of the thatching was but a distant memory. The whole thing looked like it might topple from a stronger gust of wind. It was even worse on the inside, with rickety chairs and tables whose surface seemed to be soaked in liquor. Not to mention the people! Dirty peasants, deep in their cups, surrounded them, chattering in their indistinguishable tongue. The innkeeper looked at them like lepers, even though Owyn could probably buy this place with half of what he had in his pouch!
“It’s out of the way, the fancy stuff is situated along the King’s Way” Niels put in.
He was correct, Owyn had to admit. The King’s Way ran through Kedoren and Aaaldorenfeald and was the site of heavy traffic; their approach would doubtlessly be noticed. Knowing Rurik, his older brother had spies all along the road, so caution was needed. They’d left it a few days ago and had travelled through the countryside, dressed in simple clothes to avoid drawing the peasants’ attention. It was reasonable, but it didn’t mean Owyn had to enjoy it.
“I still don’t like it. We’re obviously foreigners here, despite these rags, someone is sure to notice” Othric voiced his concern.
“You worry too much. These bastards are so drunk they wouldn’t be to recognise their own mothers!” Niels replied.
“I don’t know, Niels, I was stationed in Greybarrow for over ten years, I’ve seen my fair share of Aaldorens. They can drink like you wouldn’t believe!”
“Whatever the case, we’re here now, so what’s the point fussing over it?” Owyn brought an end to the discussion.
He examined his two companions, rough-looking men in their forties. Othric was a beast of a man, heavily muscled, with a long, greying beard and a mop of sandy hair. His hands were huge, Owyn was sure that they could snap his bones without much effort. Niels on the other hand was lither, taller, with a hawk-nose face and patchy black beard. His head was clean-shaven; Owyn suspected that it was to hide the fact that he was going bald.
Niels and Othric were his father’s men, entrusted with the young prince’s safety. They had accompanied him to Rhaetia and had taken up residence near the Academy during his studies. The two had developed a hearty friendship even though Othric was of the Strolund family, while Niels was a member of the Crowtons. The blood feud between those families ran deep, but these two, scions of lesser branches, didn’t seem to mind.
Owyn owed them his life. During their journey north they had saved him from bandits and a few other hairy situations on more than one occasion. If he became king, he would be sure to reward them. That was a big if, of course.
“Look, they’re coming.” Niels, who was watching the door, announced.
Two men, likewise dressed in drab clothing, approached their table. They set next to Othric, opposite of Owyn. It was hard to make out their features in the dim light and the hoods they foolishly wore didn’t make it easier. One was a young man with a patch over his right eye, probably around Owyn’s age, the other was older and the prince immediately recognised him as Gawen Parhall, heir to Greybarrow.
“My lord, it is good to see you alive and well” he said.
“Lord Parhall, I am glad you came” Owyn glanced at the other man “And your companion?”
“Dorin Banhill, at your service, my lord.”
Ah, so this was the second son of Lord Banhill. Owyn was surprised at this turn of events – not one, but two southern Houses supported him. That was already half of the Freeholds! Well, the weaker part, but people in his position couldn’t afford to be picky.
“What news from Kedoren?” he inquired.
“Not good, my lord” Gawen began “as you know, the King is missing. Your brother has taken power, backed by the northern families. The law forbids him from assuming the throne, but he has already done so in practice. He rules from Highcliff and is mustering his forces, preparing for a confrontation with the Freeholds.”
Owyn frowned, this just confirmed the rumours they had heard on the road. Gawen had carefully avoided mentioning that the Freeholds would like nothing better than a kingdom in disarray, so that they could increase their own independence. Already they were trying to play him, but Owyn had expected this.
He looked around the crowded inn. The din of coarse voices, cups clinking and a bard trying to play something resembling a melody drowned out individual sounds. It was doubtful that someone would pay them much heed. Still, he couldn’t shake the growing paranoia in his mind, who else was watching?
“And what of my father, the King?”
“He has not been seen since the Godfall, it’s as if he vanished in a puff of smoke!”
“Kings normally don’t vanish in a puff of smoke” Owyn replied sardonically.
“Aye, it’s true. But nobody has managed to track him. My own father has tried to no avail and your brother’s men have not fared much better.”
“The smallfolk say that the King’s gone on a pilgrimage to find Elonar” Dorin added “Some have followed suit, forsaking their lands and families.”
“It’s not clear how he disappeared” Gawen continued “the Blackfort’s captain of the guard is the prime suspect, as none of his men have apparently seen anything, but I doubt he acted alone.”
“What are you suggesting, Lord Parhall?” Owyn asked.
“My lord…I know it’s not fitting to speak ill of family, but we believe that prince Rurik himself is behind the disappearance.”
“There was no love lost between him and my father, it’s true. But my brother is a dutiful man, he wouldn’t dare go against his rightful king.”
“Prince Rurik is not the same man you knew, my lord. The years have made him cold and cruel, his name is dreaded from Greenport to Saltbrook!”
“It’s true, lord” Dorin broke in again “Some months back, a few cities in the Crowton Hold refused to pay their taxes to the crown. The prince descended on them and crushed the rebellion in such a way that has not been seen since the Brenbur Massacre.”
Owyn glanced at Niels, who winced; the man’s list of relatives had probably become much shorter. Nevertheless, the prince had the feeling that he was getting just one side of the story. The Freeholders sought to use him, his name to be exact, in order to further their own goals. They had grown quite strong during Mir’s reign and chafed under Rurik’s strict rule. Owyn didn’t exactly sympathise, but he knew his brother wasn’t right either. Rurik only respected strength - he would squeeze and squeeze until he choked out the entire kingdom. His rush to seize power just confirmed this. Instead of rallying the Houses in a quest to find the King, he’d gone and antagonised half of them! Barely a month had passed and the kingdom was already on the verge of civil war.
Sighing, Owyn looked at Gawen again. “What else?”
“Elonar’s disappearance has caused quite a stir. Peasants are saying that the world’s ending and fanatics have been quick to harness their fear. Already we’re hearing reports of yeomen butchered in their holds…it’s only a matter of time before they move onto bigger cities.”
Strange, Owyn thought, no mention of the Red Brothers. Most of the Parhalls were Red Yevists since the days of King Torin. The disappearance of Elonar seemed like a good opportunity for them to spread their influence through the rest of Kedoren. Could the Parhalls control them? Could anyone, really?
“That’s not all, my lord” Dorin said “Rumours speak of some scum calling themselves the Children of Kameth. It’s said they eat the flesh of their foes and worship the…sun!” the last words almost came out in a whisper.
Everyone at the table made a gesture of warding, crossing their fingers at the breast. They looked at each other for a moment, saying nothing.
“Well…the kingdom seems to have turned into a complete shithole while I’ve been gone” Owyn broke the silence.
Niels smiled, but the rest of the company remained stone-faced.
“I assume your father sent you to escort us?”
“Yes, my lord.” Gawen said “I’ve been ordered to see you safely to Greybarow, where my father, along with Lord Banhill and Lord Crowton will be awaiting your arrival.”
“We must move with haste. It’s best to depart right now.”
“Ser Banhill is correct” Othric said in his raspy voice “the sooner we get to Kedoren, the better.”
Gawen nodded, turning his eyes to Owyn “Some of my men will join us once we cross the border, we’ll make our way through the Iron Fields and stay off the King’s Way.”
“Then it’s decided, my lords. May the Moons watch over us!” Owyn rose and the rest of his companions followed.
As they made their way toward the exit, Owyn allowed himself one last view of the inn. He breathed in deeply, letting the stench of sour ale, unwashed bodies and questionable stew brewing in the kitchen wash over him. He couldn’t resist smiling at the incredulity of it all. If his plans actually succeeded this gods forsaken inn would be remembered as the place from which King Owyn set out to claim his throne. Other kings waged wars or slew great beasts, but Owyn emerged from this beer-smelling, piss-stained watering hole! It didn’t sound very heroic, but then again, which of this was?
The land south of the Windwall was so warm! She could feel the beads of sweat running down her back and her eyes stung from the salty drops dripping from her forehead. It was hard to imagine that foreigners regarded Kedoren as cold; did they even know what real cold was? It was even harder to imagine how much warmer it had to be in the southern kingdoms - how could those folk even work in such a blistering heat? Well, she’d find out soon enough, as her journey seemed to be taking her ever further from her home.
Stone took a long sip from her waterskin and emptied what remained on her head. She could afford to be wasteful here – the land was bountiful and there were plenty of streams where she could refill it. Likewise, the number of trees here was staggering; the vegetation along the path was so dense that she had to take out a small axe to clear a way. The narrow, paved path wasn’t the main road leading to Saltbrook, but Stone had heard that there was an ancient shrine located somewhere in the vicinity, so she’d allowed herself this small detour. She’d never travelled this far south before and it would be interesting to see how the locals had portrayed Elonar in the old days.
So far it had been quite the journey. She’d started out in Port Torin, but it quickly became apparent that the young Strolund’s tracks led further to the south. Finding a ship to Greenport had been easy, though that had only been the beginning. The next weeks were spent combing the great port-city and the countryside for any information. Lady Strolund had outright accused the Crowtons, rulers of Greenport, of taking her son and indeed, most people seemed to believe the same. The feud between the two Houses stretched back since before King Torin’s time – the Crowtons had always wanted to claim the Bay of Lights as their own, while the Strolunds had never forgiven their rivals for the destruction of their Hold. Even though they had fought on the same side during the War of the Eagles, the enmity between the two remained strong to this day.
It was natural to think that the Crowtons were involved, but Stone wasn’t convinced - she made it a habit to look past people’s petty struggles. Kalan Strolund was no mere boy to be used in the bickering of the great families. He’d been born under a fateful sign, the twelfth day of the twelfth month of the year. During these past weeks the number twelve held a constant place in her mind. The scriptures taught that Elonar had twelve disciples that had spread her word in the lands of Athiar, which would one day become Kedoren. There were twelve bright stars in the night sky, each a gift from Eirtu to his wife. Finally, her Order had twelve commandments that every Sister had to observe at any given moment. How was the heir of House Strolund connected to all of this?
No, there was more going on here than a rivalry between two Houses. Her findings had confirmed as much. Two drunks in a dockside tavern had told her that they’d seen a young man, matching Kalan’s description, taken by a band of sellswords. Their traces led away from Greenport and, village by village, all the way to the Highcliff. Interestingly, they didn’t stop there, but turned sharply south, on a course for Saltbrook – by foot. It was a very roundabout way and their refusal to board a ship betrayed their intention to avoid The Doors of Saltbrook. Likely, the group wished to avoid confronting House Arren’s men, who kept a close watch on the ships travelling the Greylin.
She kept walking down the path for at least another hour. Apart from the rustling of the trees and the occasional songbird nothing else could be heard. It was strange that she’d met no other travellers thus far. True, this wasn’t the preferred way, but there were supposedly a number of villages in the area, so Stone was expecting to at least encounter a trader or band of woodcutters. Still lost in those thoughts, she came to a fork in the road. The paved way continued onward, but there was a dirt path leading off to the side. She paused, looking around.
An old fir next to the trail had a faded symbol carved on its bark – two interlocking circles, signifying the unity of the Moons. Though overgrown and seemingly forgotten, there was no doubt in her mind that this was the way to the shrine. Quickening her pace, she followed the twisting path, deeper into the woods. If the road had seemed quiet and abandoned, then this place was truly forsaken; there were no signs that anyone had passed through here in ages. The sky was nearly obscured from the dense growth so it was hard to tell just how long she had been walking. A few moments later, something caught her attention.
The Sister knelt down to inspect the ground. She wasn’t a hunter, but she’d spent enough time in the wilds to know that the tracks before her weren’t left by animals. These belonged to a human – a group of them in fact. It struck her as odd, as all the trails she’d come across didn’t seem to be frequented by hunters, let alone others. Keeping her eyes on the ground, she advanced, pondering. Could this be another group of pilgrims, like herself?
With every passing moment she grew tenser. Stone couldn’t quite explain it, but her honed senses had never lied to her before. There was something amiss here. Suddenly, she froze, narrowing her eyes at a low-hanging branch. Blood. A few drying droplets, their light colour suggesting it was recently spilled.
Stepping softly, she edged forward. It didn’t take her long to discover more blood – a little on a tree’s bark, a few more drops on a branch, even some seeping into the trail’s dirt amidst the tracks. Stone took a deep breath, steadying herself and relaxing her muscles. Whatever was happening here, it was bad – she was sure of it. She had to be ready.
Screams of agony echoed from further down the trail – a woman’s screams. Stone wasn’t startled, she was already anticipating this. A small clearing was ahead of her, so she left the path and began moving from tree to tree. When she drew near, her features twisted in disgust.
There was no doubt now that this was the shrine. A wooden statue stood at the clearing's centre, depicting a hooded woman. What drew her ire, however, was the grisly scene unfolding before the statue’s gaze. Two haggard men, with torn clothes and unkempt hair were standing over a captive. Blood was splayed everywhere and the woman at their feet had grown deathly still. One of the men, holding a crooked knife in his bloodied hand, brought something to his mouth and took a bite. It took a moment for Stone to realise what he was holding.
He was eating the dead woman’s heart. It was still squirting blood as his teeth burrowed into it. His companion looked up, lifting his hands to the sky and began chanting.
Stone had seen enough. She ran into the clearing, bringing up her sword in one fluid motion.
“Flesh-eaters!” she shouted, her normally calm voice quivering with anger.
The heathens regarded her for the briefest of moments and then came at her as one. The knife-bearer, the larger of the two, lunged at her with his curved blade. Stone spun out of the way and tripped him, all the while slashing her sword across the other man’s chest. She drew blood and he staggered; wasting no time she drove her blade through his gut. Taking a step back, the Sister assumed a defensive stance, her sword pointing at the burly man who had managed to regain his footing. He let out a beastly cry and threw himself at her, swinging wildly. Stone rolled out of his way, then in a burst of motion she came up from behind, running her sword through his back. As he toppled over, she felt the blade severing his spine. A moment later, silence fell on the grove.
She kicked the dead body, rolling it over. There was nothing interesting about the man’s face. Stone knelt and checked his pockets, but she found nothing of note. She moved over to the other body and examined it as well, finding nothing. These two were both Kedorians and both of them were peasants by the looks of it. They were certainly not trained fighters, as she had dispatched them with ease. With her sword still in her hand, she made her way to the body of the woman. The girl's face was a mask of pain – she had been alive while her heart had been carved out. The Sister uttered a short prayer and then glanced up at Elonar’s visage.
The statue was ancient, that much was clear. It was carved from a single trunk of wood, in a time long before Ardall had introduced stonemasonry to Kedoren. It depicted a hooded woman, her eyes downcast and her features obscured. It was not so different than the way she was portrayed in the north. The left hand was hidden in the folds of her robe, but the other should be outstretched, holding an orb. Stone moved closer and noticed that the statue’s right hand had been violently removed. The statue had been defiled, most likely by these scum and their ilk.
“Elonar, forgive us…” she whispered, lowering her head.
At almost the same moment, she heard movement behind her, but it was too late. Pain exploded in the back of her head and the world went black.
Stone came to as a pair of rough hands gripped her neck, trying to choke her. Pushing through the pain, she cleared her vision and focused. A scrawny man, with crazed eyes had straddled her and was shouting something incomprehensible, spittle flying from his mouth. She hit him with her fists, but that didn’t deter him in the least bit. Her vision began to swim and she felt the strength draining from her, almost out of breath. Groping desperately, her hand felt something on the ground – a stone. She slammed it into his head as hard as she could.
The madman cried out, his hold on her weakening. Stone gripped his wrist and twisted sharply, until she felt it snap. Her enemy howled in pain, clutching his broken hand. Wasting no time, she drew a knife from her sleeve and jammed it straight into his throat. The man gurgled, spitting blood on her. With a grunt, she pushed him away and got to her feet, her head still spinning.
She looked around, grabbing her sword. Her breathing was ragged and her hands were trembling slightly. Stone had been carless and she almost paid for it with her life! Recalling her training, she willed herself to focus and relax. A glance at her attacker revealed that he was as dead as the other three. Her eyes narrowed, scanning the treeline for any signs of movement. Eventually, she determined it was safe.
A glance down at her robe revealed it was stained in crimson. She looked like a bloody Red Sister! Stone took out a piece of cloth from a pocket and used it to wipe the blood off her sword, which she then sheathed. Slowly, she approached the statue, laying a hand on the wood. She felt a wave of invigorating energy wash over her. The Sister smiled – let fools speak what they want, the Goddess was not gone! Still keeping her hand on the statue she began circling it, wishing to see what was on the other side.
She gasped and withdrew her hand at once, as if burned. Despite everything today, she’d managed to keep a rein on her emotions. But now…now, the colour drained from her face.
On Elonar’s back a symbol had been painted in blood. She had never seen it in her life, but everyone in Kedoren or rather, everyone in Ardacia knew what it was.
Ser Byren had been invited by the prince and presumptive king of Kedoren, though it sounded somehow like an invitation to fast by the man's tone. He was a northerner, through and through. All stone-faced and unflinching. He reminded Byren of his cousin Hamhands Hockor, who he hadn't seen smile in years. He paused for a moment to recollect on his cousin Hamhands' whereabouts, his mind drifting to the comfortable, familiar Edontian wetlands, before shaking himself out of his nostalgia. As if from a dream, he recalled the words of the knight he had squired for, Ser Poe Caunie.
"Home clouds a man's mind, and a clouded mind gets a sword shoved through it. Think of home on the road leading to it."
His quarters were actually quite spacious and well-lit, with a table for a table in lieu of the barrel tables and hay seats of Parhall's stablehouse, with several chairs backed with thick pelts, a goosefeather-stuffed mattress, and chest containing a chamberpot, a nightgown that had been nibbled at the neck by a moth, and a tin of smelling salts. It was the smelling salts that made him chuckle, as if he were some frill-cuffed nobleman visiting from Rhaetia.
At the end of the room, a long mirror hung, allowing Byren the first look at himself in days. He needed a shave, now growing a feint unsightly beard, though noticing it hid his aging features, he decided to leave it be. His oily skin clung to beads of sweat, and the days of travelling left him looking more tattered than ever. He pushed a few thin tendrils of black hair off of his forehead, which clung like snakes to his cool sweat, and wiped his face off with his sleeve. He hoped that Russal would be more presentable than himself.
He heard a sharp knock on the door -- one of the guards that had been stationed outside, surely -- signaling the prince's readiness for dinner, and the unspoken urgency for Byren to leave his quarters.
Byren made his way out, meeting the eyes of the Kedoren guard who motioned for him to follow, as Russal exited his room and followed the two as well. Within moments, the boy caught up with them, leaning closer to Byren than the guard.
"Why didn't you take nothin' offa that knight, Byren? The king said you could."
"The prince said it was Kedoren custom, and I'm no Kedoren. Besides, it wouldn't be right."
"Why not? The prince said it was alright."
Byren nodded uneasily. "That's true, aye, but there's no honor found in taking a man's boots after you break his nose." He felt a sudden twinge of sympathy for his inexperienced squire, perhaps affected by his earlier recollections of being a squire himself, and tried to soften his words as he spoke. "Best to not make another enemy while we're away from home, wouldn't you say?"
Russal nodded, pondering his master's advice as the two rounded a corner through the hall, into a larger candlelit room. Unlike most of the corridors or the guest rooms, this one was decorated. A comfortable looking rug, in the black and green colours of House Tyndall, covered most of the stone floor. The black, otherwise barren walls, were lined with several tapestries, depicting various events. One of them, worn and old-looking, showed a crowned man, with a two headed-eagle on his breast, walking away from a younger man, whose eyes had been gouged out, leaving rivulets of blood flowing down his face. The most prominent tapestry, however, depicted three youths, hunters by the look of them, standing over a fearsome beast they had slain. It resembled a huge, white cat with stripes, but the fangs jutting out from its mouth brought to mind the tusks of a boar.
Moonlight shone from a small window on the right side of the room, under it a fireplace radiated gentle warmth. Opposite of the fireplace, a number of weapons were arrayed - swords, axes, pikes, crossbows - all polished to a shine. A suit of well-worn, undecorated armour, stood next to them and at its feet an equally worn-looking green shield was propped, displaying the two-headed golden eagle. All in all, it was obvious what sort of man inhabited this room.
Rurik had already seated himself at the table in the centre of the chamber. The place was obviously not a feast hall and it was meant for smaller gatherings. Only three chairs were placed next to the rectangular table - the Prince occupied the one farthest away from the entrance, the other one was directly opposite of him and a smaller chair was situated on its right. He motioned for his guests to seat and nodded at a servant near the door. A moment later, half a dozen men and women wearing Tyndall livery entered the room, laying out food and drink on the table with a practiced precision. It was more than enough for three - a pot full of steaming vegetable soup, accompanied by salted meats and loaves of freshly-baked bread. Finally the head-servant placed a sweet-smelling roasted ice hog at the center of the table, then looked at Rurik.
"That will be all, Rodrick. Leave us." the Prince told him.
Rodrick nodded, then made for the exit, followed by the other servants, leaving behind the two guards flanking the door.
"You too." Rurik gestured at them.
The men saluted and withdrew, closing the door behind them. It seemed to be the only entrance to the room, apart from a smaller door behind Rurik, but that probably lead to his bedchamber.
The Prince looked between Byren and his squire, though his gaze eventually fixed on the knight.
"I trust you can pour your own ale, Ser Byren." he nodded at the door "I'd rather keep what is said here between us."
Following his own advice, Rurik did just that, then took a sip from his finely crafted glass without waiting for the two.
"I've been told food in Edontas is much different than ours, so I ordered the cooks to prepare something more to your liking, using what spices we have. It's probably not what you're used to, but at least it's freshly-cooked, the meat is tender and the vegetables were picked this morning." he took a carving knife and cut a few slices from the roasted hog, then waved the knife in their direction. "Make yourselves at home."
Russal waited for Ser Byren to sit before seating himself, and stepped closer to the wall to examine the tapestry that hung atop the black stonework. It was the tapestry of the hunters. Russal had never been good at identifying historical figures, be it through tapestries, statues, or paintings, though as he began to examine it, he could at least be certain that one of the three youths must have been Rurik, or perhaps a very young Mir Tyndall. He had dark, golden-yellow hair and gleaming green eyes that stood out in the tapestry's stitchwork. His face, as the rest of the faces were, seemed somewhat round and juvenile in its facial features and somber in its expression. He wore a circlet and braces of gold and wore the Tyndall colors on a cape, merging at the center with shades of dark green growing lighter at the bottom and darker at the top.
Next to him, in the left side of the tapestry, was a similarly sized youth in dark armor, with a wolf's pelt thrown over his shoulder. Though it seemed to be greatly softened in the tapestry, a scar ran from his eye to his lip, taking the form of a thin red line of thread. His boot was on the beast's side, with one leg raise atop triumphantly, as if to stake his claim on their kill. Finally, on the right-hand side of the Tyndall in the center of the tapestry, was the third hunter. He was pale, with long black hair and pale brown eyes, fair enough in features that Russal at first had assumed it was depicting a woman. This hunter wore a dark blue cape, and on his chest, wore a bat. Where the other two brandished swords, the dark-haired hunter on the right clasped the ridge of a longbow with both hands.
Russal looked around, and noticed that Byren had long since been seated. Quickly, Russal sat down as well, picking up his fork as if to show that he had been ready all along, giving Byren a sheepish smile before turning from the knight's glare to inspect his food.
Byren looked at his ale for a moment. It was a familiar red-brown malt color, topped with a thin layer of sandy brown foam. He took a sip, and his recognization was confirmed -- Edontian ale, as sure as the potatoes had been garnished with Edontian honeygrass and the ice hog glazed in peppery Edontian oil. He motioned to Russal, who eyed the food suspiciously, to begin eating, as he plunged a fork into the meat on is plate -- Like all of his countrymen, Byren could tell if he was walking into a trap. If the king meant to poison them, he would not have used tastes so familar. Russal took a gulp of his ale and gingerly gave the prince a word of thanks as well, who nodded in appreciation. After a few minutes of the three eating, Rurik looked up from his food and took another sip of ale. As he placed the glass back down on the table, he looked at the two foreigners and his features hardened.
"Ser Byren," he began, "You strike me as a plain-speaking man, so I'll be blunt. I've known Oren Lugain since we were lads. I've known his parents for even longer. I was there when he dueled John Carnegie, and I was there when we protected Greenport from the pirates who set out to take it. I witnessed him pledging his loyalty to my father, when he became Captain of the Guard. Not once in all those years has King Valdemar expressed interest in his nephew, so why the sudden change?"
Ser Byren paused to swallow, raising his hand for a moment to signal that his pause was not out of picking his words. "Truth be told, m'lord," He began in an agreeable tone, "It's not my place to know. The Flittons are an odd lot. They have their wants and ways, and they change with the phases of the moons for all I know."
"So they sent you here with no knowledge of the man you are supposed to rescue and no inkling as to what they want with him?" the Prince's green eyes bored into the grizzled knight."Your King must consider you very able to send you on such a blind quest," he took a sip, "That, or he believes you to be untrustworthy."
He waved a hand, brushing the matter aside. "At any rate, I care little for what King Valdemar thinks of his knights. What do you intend to do with Oren once he's free?"
"The king finds everyone untrustworthy." Byren said, shifting to a more gravely look. "It's the only way to rule Edontas. Take it from an Edontian." His words were solemn, moreso than the dour knight usually grumbled. "As for what will happen once Oren is free," He began, his face softening, "I'll do what I was ordered to. Bring the lad back in one piece."
"Very well, though I'd be weary of passing through Lord Parhall's again, you might not enjoy the same hospitality." He gave them a knowing look, making it clear he was aware of their route, though it was hard to say when this knowledge had been gleamed. "Lugain is a northern name and not much liked in the Freeholds. Speaking of which, are you at all familiar with Oren Lugain's lineage?"
Byren paused for a moment, taking another sip of his ale. He was a bit surprised, perhaps even a bit shocked, but not frightened -- few things seemed to frighten the knight at this age. Kings had eyes and ears everywhere, though Rurik was not yet a king, and this thought lingered in Byren's mind. "I know he's Valdemar's nephew, and that's all I've been told. Forgive me if I seem ignorant, m'lord. If you were as old as me and had half as many cousins as I, you'd forget faraway nobleman's bloodlines all the same."
At this, Rurik laughed. For the first time a genuine emotion was detectable in the stone-faced man, bringing to mind the image of the vigorous youth in the tapestry. It lasted for only a few moments, however, and before long he was back to his dour self.
"Ser Byren...we're in Kedoren. I can name five-and-thirty cousins whom I've had the dubious pleasure of meeting this past month and that's only from my mother's side! In fact, you've already met one of them - you beat him bloody a while ago. The second you're about to meet - it's the man you've been sent here for."
The Prince let those words hang in the air for a moment, studying his guests. He wanted these foreigners to understand the importance of bloodlines in Kedoren, so that they could better relay his message. When he spoke, it was in the all too familiar heavy voice.
"Oren Lugain not only happens to be a distant relative, but he's also the son of Peter Lugain, and he is the brother of Lord Oswald Lugain, the head of the family. The Lugains, as you may have heard, are an incredibly wealthy family, the wealthiest in Kedoren." Rurik kept his eyes on the two as he emptied his glass, which he roughly brought down on the table. "It's well known by now that my father, the King, is missing. These are uncertain times for Kedoren and after that show in the sky - for Ardacia as well. A perfect time for one lord to fall and another to rise....What a coincidence then, that King Valdemar decided to just now lay hands on his nephew, one of five heirs to Windhold."
In a burst of motion Rurik twirled his carving knife and slammed it into the table with great anger, the blade sinking almost to the hilt. A pulsing vein was clearly visible on his forehead, as he jabbed a finger at Byren.
"Now you listen closely ser, for I have a message for your King." It didn't seem possible, but his voice took on an even graver tone. "Do not interfere in the affairs of my kingdom. Kedoren and Edontas have always stayed out of each other's business and it will remain this way. Bats don't dare hunt where or when the eagle does."
Rurik took a breath and steadied himself. The uncomfortable silence stretched for a while before he spoke again:
"Take Lugain and leave at first light tomorrow. Bring him to your master's caves and do with him as you wish, but remember my message."
He clapped twice and the doors opened, a stream of servants moved in and started clearing out the table.
"Enjoy your ride home, ser."
For the first time in weeks, Oren Lugain was stirred awake. He took a gasp of the frigid morning's air, pulling himself back a few feet into the corner of the bed, swiping blindly at his intruder before coming to his senses and his consciousness. It was the first human interaction he had had since his imprisonment -- Even his meals were delivered silently under the door -- and as such, adrenaline began to course through his tired veins. He opened his eyes, shielding them from the light for a moment with his raised fist, before realizing who had woken him up. He lowered his arm and coughed into his closed fist, nodding in apology to the wire-haired old guard at his bedside. His throat stung, and his sweat was now an unpleasantly cold dampness that had settled into the fabric of his nightclothes. Whether or not there was an intruder in his cell, there was little Oren was fit to do about it. "Calm down, Lugain. Some pathy with a busted face is 'ere to rescue you." His guard chortled, turning to leave. "Dress yourself and make your way to the courtyard. Bertand will be 'alfway there. I trust you won't take after Mir and vanish in the meantime." Oren remained curled in his corner, trying to process the information, while pulling his blanket closer to himself for a moment, eyeing his barred window. Just as always, a cold breeze rolled through it steadily. Hah. Oren thought to himself. That was the last night that acursedly cold window will torment me. With a grunt of exertion, Oren rolled to his feet, planting his bare soles on the cold, black stone floor. He hastily made for the chest at the edge of his bed -- his surname had allowed him to take everything but his loyal beast to his imprisonment -- and opened it, rifling through layers of fabric. After a few moments of searching, Oren decided on a dark blue gambeson, and began to quickly change clothes, slipping on a pair of black boots and grey trousers, tightening the tunic at the waist with a brown leather belt. Satisfied, he made his way to the other end of the room to examine himself. His time in the cell made him paler and skinnier than he already was, and the lack of a razor had left him with a thin beard. His eyes had sunken slightly, surrounded by circles of darkened, tan skin, though that was not entirely out of ordinary for him. He turned to his bed, resolving to shave after he had been freed, and returned to the chest. He rifled through the contents before pulling a handful of items -- Namely, a leather falconer's glove and a matching bow and quiver, both stained a distinct purple-black ebony.
He shut the door of the chest, not bothering to lock it, knowing full well it would be searched immediately after his departure for evidence. Let them search, he thought to himself. Half of what he had written in his journals was false, half of it was hidden in codes, and half of it had likely been falsified in code. His strange journals and their entries had always been a boyish habit of his, and one he hoped the Tyndall prince may well have forgotten, ever since a discovery that his father would read the entries in secret. Other than his journal, all the search party would find were his books, clothes, arrows, and scraps of the chest's mummified leathery interior. With his quiver slung over his shoulder and bow in his begloved hand, Oren made his way for the door and left the cell.
Making his way to Blackfort's courtyard, he turned a corner, meeting eyes with none other than his replacement as Captain of Guards, Ser Betrand Arren. The man stood as tall and proud as ever, though Oren could see that he had a purple crescent under each eye, yellowing at the corners. "Oren Lugain, Earl of Windhold," He began, "As a knight sworn to the House of Tyndall," he said, emphasizing his words in a cutting tone, "I have been sent to escort you to the edge of the city with your party."
"I will not be leaving without Sunwise."
"In case of any possible beastmouth relations you might have with the bat, it will be kept here for Mage Toki's examination until further notice."
Oren paused for a moment, staring into Bertrand's bruised eyes with a quiet anger. "If I were a beastmouth, would that not make Sunwise my spy?"
"I have no time for your tricks, Oren. Come with me." He took a step forward, keeping one hand at the hilt of his sword.
"Give me the bat, Bertrand, and I'll make you glad you did."
"Is that a threat, Captain?" He asked mockingly, pacing forward. "I don't threaten people, I bribe them." Oren said with a coy smile, causing Bertrand to give pause in his slow march towards Oren. "My coinpurse will be discovered during the search through my cell, and the search party will either divide it amongst themselves a dozen ways or give it to Rurik."
Bertrand looked at him blankly, clenching his jaw in the same quiet anger Oren had displayed moments before. House Lugain was a rich house, and House Arren was simply not. Whether he would have liked to admit it, this was a truth Oren knew as well as he.
Bertrand said nothing, staring at Oren bitterly through his swollen eyes, before giving a slow growl. "I will let Rurik know your wishes, for no reason than you once being a friend to these lands."
"I thank you for that, Ser Bertrand. You'll find the coins between the bust and it's helm, for no reason than your investigation, of course." He gave the knight a cheeky nod, who continued to do nothing but scowl at him.
Bertrand made his way past Oren, away from the courtyard and towards Rurik's quarters, and before Rurik's quarters, Oren's cell. Oren continued onward, satisfied with the negotiation.
"Oren Lugain," Bertrand began again, this time leaving out Oren's dukehood. The sky was pale grey, threatening to begin raining at any moment, and the air had grown no warmer since Oren's awakening. "Under order of Prince Rurik, with the power given to me by House Tyndall and Eirtu Himself, I forbid your re-entry to these lands until further notice."
"Wossat mean, Byren?" a voice spoke up in a whisper. "Long time. Hush up." Another voice slurred quietly.
"Before you leave, however," Bertrand continued, practically talking over the interruption, "I have been ordered by Prince Rurik to return to you your pet direbat, and a gift from the prince himself." One of the guards stepped forward with a cloth-covered cage, removing the cloth gingerly in the hopes of not awakening the creature underneath, to no avail. It screeched loudly, flapping it's wings for a moment, swinging from the bar it hung from. It was a direbat, surely, though certainly not of the infamous Flitton breed -- It was smaller, about the size of a dog, with thick brown hair and a short, hoglike snout. It continued to screech until being quieted by its master, who calmed his horse's reins with his free hand. The guard made his way to Oren, unclasping the cage doors and allowing the beast to crawl onto Oren's falconing glove's arm, still screeching wildly. as it covered its eyes with its wings, shielding itself from the daylight.
Bertrand stepped forward after the guard made his way back, reaching up to the duke and putting something into Oren's gloved hand. "Now leave, and do not return." Oren stared at him only for a moment, before turning and shaking the reins of his horse to leave. The bat screeched once more as the gates of Blackfort closed behind their trio, stretching and closing its leathery wings once more. Thunder boomed in the distance.
