Session One Hundred and Two - May 12, 2013

Wherein the ongoing story of the FtF campaign may be found ...

Session One Hundred and Two - May 12, 2013

Postby Matt » Wed Jun 05, 2013 11:53 pm

Larane 8, 732

Standing upon the threshold of Raven Hall and peering out at the curtains of rain sweeping down Chidena Street, Sotor of Pelanby turns to address Kaelyn of Aletta, who has just then descended the stairs.

“Mistress Kaelyn, on such a day as this, is there anything better for us to do than to tarry at the Guild of Arcane Lore?”

“Well yes, actually,” the young sorceress demurs, somewhat tartly. “I’m going to visit someone I know named Garth of Kerrina. I’d be happy to meet you at the Guild afterward, however.”

“Very well then,” Sotor responds agreeably. He sketches a small, prim bow and watches Kaelyn hurriedly depart into the downpour as a roll of thunder peals above the city. Drawing his hat downward to his ears, he pulls the door closed behind him and trots the short distance up Chidena Street through the pelting downpour to the entrance of the Guild Hall, two doors down. He speaks to the superannuated seneschal while hanging his dripping mantle from a wooden peg near the front door, and then greets the two Guild members who happen to be present in the member’s lounge, one of whom he recognizes as Tevorel, an alchemist. Sotor seats himself at a table, requests a small glass of wine, and begins to compose a number of letters to various acquaintances on the continent. After a period of time spent scribbling upon the parchment, he looks up.

“A question, gentlemen. Is there much contact between Kaldor and Anzeloria?”

Tevorel’s companion raises an eyebrow and says, “No… Why would you ask such a question?”

“Well, it’s an extraordinary coincidence, but in two places in the city last night I saw the remains of Anzelorian animals! One was at a place of entertainment called Galopea’s Feast. I don’t know if either of you are familiar with it …”

“Well, of course we are! It’s right around the corner!”

Sotor nods at this piece of common sense. “It was the hide of a striped horse.”

“Yes,” Tevorel confirms, “we have seen it. Nobody knows what the animal is. But yes, it is equine in nature.”

“And then,” Sotor goes on, “I had the opportunity to call upon one Aethel Atan. And, on the floor of his house, he had the hide of an enormous animal which apparently is called an ‘oliphant’.”

“Oh,” the other scoffs, “it is far more likely to be a dragon.”

Sotor purses his lips, evaluating this hypothesis. “I have seen some dragon remains, and it looked nothing like that. The tail, for instance, was on the front end.”

Tevorel’s companion shakes his head, unconvinced. “Surely you know, learned colleague, that every dragon is different.”

Sotor sighs. “I have heard that theory …” He considers for a moment, and then brightens. “Atan’s house was fascinating! Is he a member of the Guild of Arcane Lore?”

They both shrug, glancing at each other. Tevorel answers, “We would like him do be, would we not, Eradas?” The other nods in concurrence.

“He seemed to be a social sort of fellow,” Sotor opines. “I am surprised that he does not come around.”

“We would be very grateful of the acquaintance!” Eradas assures him, closing an unwieldy book upon his lap. “We have never been so honored with an invitation to his home.”

Sotor places his quill in the inkpot. “Also at the house were two other gentlemen. Quillen of Rakot, and Sir Jahmis Keir. Are they locals?”

Sir Jahmis Keir they do not know, but Tevorel says that he has heard of Quillen of Rakot, who has been into the Guild and availed himself of its lodging in the past.

“And is Quillen an alchemist, like you worthy gentlemen?”

They both answer in the negative, Eradas not batting an eye at his being grouped with Tevorel in this profession, and they both agree that they are under the impression that Quillen of Rakot is a Shek P’var.

“Oh! Oh,” Sotor exclaims mildly, dissimulating surprise. He is quiet for a moment.

“Did we understand you to say that Quillen of Rakot is here in the city?” Tevorel ventures. “Just this last night? I wonder where he is staying?”

“I didn’t get a chance to ask. It was only a passing meeting. If I see him again, I will pass on your regards.”

“Oh, please do,” they both say in unison.


Stooping against the rain on a busy Chelebin Street, Kaelyn pulls the cord to the bell outside Garth of Kerrina’s house. The mage’s servant, Marald, answers the door.

“I remember you,” he pronounces preemptively. “He is at home. Come. I will see if he is receiving.” Kaelyn is led through the stable and into kitchen. Marald climbs the stairs and then, a minute later, returns. “You may go upstairs.”

Garth arises from his chair by the fireplace and walks over to her. “Kaelyn, how nice to see you,” he says warmly. “May I offer you something?”

“No, thank you,” she responds. “I have just broken my fast, and am content.”

“Is this a social call, or are you in need?” He gestures for her to sit, and resumes his own chair.

“I wish it was both, but it is more need than social.”

“You should come and see me when you wish to be social,” he admonishes gently.

“I should,” she agrees. “My apologies. The man I have attached myself to – because knowledge, power, time to study is wonderful – has me kept me quite busy.”

“Sir Ewen,” he frowns slightly. “Yes. His star rises.”

“And, like all rising stars, they get noticed.”

“Precisely why I try to avoid such people,” Garth says earnestly. “They are a danger and may get you killed. I once knew people like that.” He shudders. “It was terrible on the nerves. I was in constant fear of death!” He leans in toward her. “If you take my advice, you will detach yourself immediately from such people. Find yourself a nice little garret somewhere, someplace like this, and do what we should do. Study. Contemplate. Dabble in a little magic here and there – but no one can ever see! – and live a nice, quiet, safe life. It doesn’t require you to climb a single tree.” He smiles benignly and settles back in his chair.

“I would love to take your advice. And, frankly, when I attached myself to him I thought he would rise quickly. I would have a place where I would need not worry about where my income came from, and I would have a room, and a library at my disposal. I did not realize his star would be so … hot.”

Garth chuckles, and then leans forward again and pats her on the forearm. “You are still young. Wisdom will come.”

Kaelyn conceals the fact that she is slightly miffed by this condescension. “I am afraid, Garth, with regard to my hour of need … As you know, we never stop learning. I have learned of some very interesting things, and I don’t know what to do. I have come to you for some advice.”

He elevates an admonishing finger. “I think I shall need something for that.” He rises and treads over to the staircase. Raising his soft voice ever so slightly, he sedately calls down for a tankard. He returns to his chair and folds his hands expectantly.

“Aethel Atan, Sir Jahmis Keir, and Quillen of Rakot have taken notice of Sir Ewen.”

“I know.” He takes a deep breath, as is composing his thoughts. “What I will tell you now, I tell you as a fellow practitioner, and as someone who understands what it is like to be in mortal fear for your life on each and every day. A question has been raised amongst our colleagues: have the Deryni, by their recent activities, brought themselves under the Rule? Many of our colleagues believe that they have, that they have made themselves too bold with the common folk, and it is time that they are subject to the same rules that we Shek P’var are subject to. There are others, some more practical,” he smiles, lightly touching his own breastbone with his hand, “who say that even though we believe this, it might be rather difficult to get the Deryni to agree to it.” He sighs. “But still, some feel the attempt must be made.”

“To tell you the truth, Garth, the only Deryni things I have seen Sir Ewen do is to light the way, and move an object that was blocking a door.”

As if cued by the egregious falsehood, a young serving girl carries a tray with two tankards up into the room at this juncture. Garth thanks her and gratefully takes a sip, while the girl sketches an awkward curtsey and disappears back down the staircase.

Setting the mug down, Garth meets Kaelyn’s gaze and continues, choosing his words carefully. “I do not speak of one single Deryni, Kaelyn. I speak of them all. And this does not include only those events which have occurred in Tashal. This refers to events that have occurred across the island over the past decade. There is a larger question afoot: Have the Deryni become too bold? The local instance is but one aspect of that. We Shek P’var find our hands tied by our own laws against interfering and revealing ourselves. The Deryni have done more than we are comfortable with. I, of course, do not wish to become involved in any way, and declined to participate in all but the first meeting.”

Kaelyn shifts uncomfortably in her chair, and begins, “As for my own role …”

He nods, his soft voice reassuring. “Your name came up, and was dismissed for two reasons. One, you are yet but a Satia Mavari. And two, it was deemed that, as a retainer of a known Deryni, you were – forgive me – untrustworthy.”

Kaelyn shrugs. “Nothing to forgive. I understand my loyalties could be seen as … divided.”

“It was also, I suspect, considered that it would put you in a very difficult position. For someone as young and inexperienced, that would not be fair.”

“Can you tell me: Sir Jahmis and Quillen and Aethel. Are they gray mages?”

“Quillen of Rakot is a gray mage, and has been for some time. He is often seen when investigations of this nature are conducted. His arrival,” he chuckles again, “is often unwelcome amongst Shek P’var for that reason. I do not know Sir Jahmis well; I have only met him the one time. My sense is that he is a mage of great power and experience. But as I declined to become involved he was extremely dismissive of me, so I don’t know more about him, other than the fact that he is from Emelrene. I would not recommend crossing these men.”

“I will take your advice. I wish to document this matter, between the Deryni and the Shek P’var, so I will remain with Ewen longer to get his vantage point. Can you recommend anything which would keep me from being labeled a rogue?”

“You are in no danger of that, as far as I know, for you have not used our power openly in his service. To anyone’s knowledge,” he adds, smiling slyly.

“At all!”

“I don’t think anyone would believe that,” he chides. “I should tell you that one of our people who did participate in the meetings, so far as I know, was the King’s Master of Esoterica, the Lady Derwen Verdreth.” Kaelyn looks quizzical at this. “You did know she that is a Lyavhi Shek P’var, didn’t you?”


Later that morning the storm moderates to a light rain, although distant thunder still sounds in the direction of the hills west of the Kald. Sir Baris Tyrestal attempts to present himself at Balim House, where a number of the estate guards are busy clearing people away from the front gate. A Summer Fair crowd is streaming through Ternua Gate and spilling out of the Spurs. As one of the guards begins shooing Sir Baris away as well, the knight draws himself up to his full height.

“My good man! It is I, Sir Baris. I am in the retinue of Sir Ewen Ravinargh.”

The guard narrows his gaze, takes in Sir Baris’s stature, and steps aside to confer with one of his comrades. Sir Baris waits patiently while the milling crowd jostles him. Over by Ternua Gate, a motley-costumed podicinist is entertaining the throng with an impromptu performance, lampooning the pretensions of the nobility. Sir Baris laughs for a bit, and then calls out to the debating guards. “I was hoping to speak to your lord’s falconer.”

This appears to do the trick, and they determine that his claims may have merit. Several moments later, within the cool and sedate interior of Lord Dariune’s mansion, Sir Baris puts his case to the retainer standing before him. The man, small, bronze, wiry and afflicted with a permanent squint, peers up at Sir Baris’s impressive height.

“Good my falconer, I am interested in acquiring a bird, and wondered whether you might have some advice for me?” Sir Baris says, sounding like he has rehearsed the line.

The man strokes his chin and then grins. “Well, actually, Sir Baris, I happen to have some very young kestrels who have just hatched several weeks ago. I have inquired of his lordship if I should train these birds, or find suitable homes for them, but I was told by his lordship not to trouble him with small affairs. Thus, Sir Baris, these birds are in my gift.” He looks the knight up and down. “Do you have a falconer, Sir Baris?”

“I do not,” Sir Baris responds, not sure whether he should be offended by the questioner’s dubious tone of voice. “I was hoping to give the bird as a gift.”

“Ah,” the little man nods in approval. “A knightly gift indeed. Does the intended recipient have a falconer?”

“I am quite sure that he does.”

“I see. Well, the birds are barely old enough, and untrained.” The falconer clears his throat and looks to either side, suddenly diffident. “Sir Baris, I wonder if perhaps you can do me a favor? I am almost embarrassed to ask a knight of your status, but you do have a certain … reputation.”

Sir Baris receives this verdict more equably, and nods his head. “I do. What do you have in mind?”

“Well, you see. You have a neighbor. A neighbor of the female persuasion. Now, don’t get me wrong, Sir Baris. I do not aim above my station. But there is a rather buxom lass, whom I have seen from afar. And I wonder if perhaps you know her, and could arrange an introduction, or a happenstance meeting?” The falconer squints up at him anxiously.

“Molly,” Sir Baris concludes, divining the object of the fellow’s infatuation with ease.

“Is that her name?”

“I think so.”

“Molly …” he pronounces rapturously. “… I would be ever so grateful. At least one kestrel fledgling’s worth …”

Sir Baris frowns and attempts to weigh this strange bargain in the balance. He shakes his head. What, he thinks, would Tora suggest? “Well, see here. I’m really needing to give this gift today, but I’ll give it some thought …”

“Sir Baris, you are a knight. A man of honor, I have no doubt. Your word is good enough for me.”

Sometime later the falconer comes back down with a fledgling on his arm. “I have already begun training the bird to the jess and the hood.” Sir Baris nods sagely as if he understands these terms. The falconer hands Sir Baris a rather thick glove. The knight turns it over, examining it curiously. “Perhaps you should put it on, Sir Baris.” The knight attempts this. The falconer coughs. “It is a left-handed glove, Sir Baris.” The falconer moves the kestrel, already hooded, from his own glove onto Sir Baris’s glove, and then ties the jesses.

“Now, he expects to be fed by hand, Sir Baris.”

Sir Baris stares at the small bird perched upon his gloved forearm. “Ah?”

“If you do not have a falconer, Sir Baris, you will have to do this yourself, or entrust it to someone who has done it before. He eats only fresh meat.”

Sir Baris frowns. “Any particular kind of meat?”

“A rodent is best …”

“Oh, good,” Sir Baris grins in relief.

“– a cat if you can get it. The kittens on the property, the ones who survive: well, the hawks are their true masters. But don’t overfeed. He should be kept lean. So, once in the morning, once in the evening is plenty. He has already been fed this morning. Oh, and if you take the hood off – he cannot yet fly – but he can hurt you if you get too close. His beak is quite sharp.”

Sir Baris, his arm held awkwardly aloft, slowly nods his head.


Sir Ewen, wrapped in a cloak, emerges from his abode into the downpour and strides through Haldan Square and up Torastra Way to his wife’s apartment. He raps upon the door and steps back, and waits for a time for a response. He raps again. To his left, the kitchen door opens and Thilisa’s maidservant Matilda emerges carrying two buckets. Awkwardly juggling her burden, she begins to secure the door behind her.

“Hold one moment, girl,” Sir Ewen calls.

She looks toward the front door and apprehends Sir Ewen standing in the street in the rain. She attempts a quick curtsey with a bucket in each hand.

“Is my lady wife at home?”

“She is, my lord,” she calls. Matilda glances down at her buckets and then peers at him doubtfully. “Did you wish to come in the house?”

“I had some thought to do so when I knocked.”

In an agony of indecision, she glances back at the servants’ entrance and again at her buckets, clearly attempting to order in her thoughts the proper procedure for disencumbering herself and letting the master of the house in by one of the two available entrances. What entrance that should be, and whether she should do this from the street or from the interior of the domicile, appears to elude her.

Apprehending the girl’s growing panic, Sir Ewen sighs and strides toward her. “I am not standing on ceremony today. I will come in by the kitchen.”

“As you wish, my lord!” She nimbly steps aside, profoundly grateful that the knight has relieved her of the awesome burden of decision.

“Pray continue on your errand.” Sir Ewen sweeps past her and into the kitchen. Sir Ewen nods to the curtsey from the startled cook, whom he has never met before. “Is my lady wife in the hall?”

“No, my lord. She is in the solar.”

Sir Ewen finds the hall entirely uninhabited, explaining the failure of anyone to answer the rapping at the front door. Sir Ewen strides through and begins to climb the stairs. Thilisa’s guardsman Muga is descending these, stooping and crouching his enormous frame to avoid striking his head upon the beams above. Seeing the knight below, he grunts in his pidgin Harnic. “S’Ewen.”

“Quite. Is Sir Rollard above?”

“S’Rollard out.”

“Ah, I see. And Finbar?”

“F’Bar out.”

Sir Ewen frowns. “Lady Elena, perhaps?”

“L’Ena in, with Great Lady.” He turns abruptly and begins to awkwardly re-climb the stairs. Sir Ewen exhales in exasperation. Moments later, Lady Elena appears above with the shadow of Muga looming behind her. She descends a few steps and manifests a slight curtsey.

“Sir Ewen. We were not expecting you.”

“Yes. I beg your pardon of the unheralded intrusion,” he says, his voice tinged with irony. “I have a bit of news my lady wife will want to hear.”

“Of course. You are to go up.” She steps to the side as Sir Ewen passes, and then follows him on up. At the top of the stairs, she slips past Sir Ewen and opens the door to the solar. She does a more developed obeisance to Thilisa. “Sir Ewen, my lady.” She steps aside.

Thilisa is seated in the balcony area, a small book of devotions open beside her. She looks up from something she is embroidering, her face unsmiling.

“It is pleasing to see you, husband. Are you moving in, or does Raven Hall still stand?”

Sir Ewen smiles easily, glancing about the room. “Raven Hall is yet intact, I assure you. I am sorry that circumstances necessitated your abrupt departure the other night. How do you fare, dear wife?”

“As well as can be expected, given this condition with which I have been afflicted.” She glances distastefully at her belly, and then considers Sir Ewen coldly. “Would you care for a libation, or to take a seat, or will you not be here that long?”

“A libation would be most welcome.” Sir Ewen drapes himself into a chair and returns her gaze steadily. Behind him, the sound of light footsteps on the staircase suggests Lady Elena’s departure. “I assume you would be interested to hear that your father has remarried.”

Thilisa puts down her embroidery, her face impassive. “Well. He certainly got the most out of his mourning period, didn’t he? And, of course, the reason for such a timely remarriage can only be one.”

“Yes,” Sir Ewen agrees. “And would it be a matter of interest to you, as well, to know whom he has remarried?”

She raises an eyebrow. “If you know the lady in question, by all means.”

Sir Ewen savors the syllables. “The Lady Bresyn Risai.”

Thilisa’s eyes narrow. “An interesting choice. Well, there goes my thought to invite her over for embroidery.”

“I suspect the production of an heir to supplant your rightful place shall take precedence for a time over her embroidery.”

Thilisa shrugs. “If, as you say, her purpose is to be a brood mare, then embroidery is in her future, as it was in her past.” Her inflection turns bitter. “I wonder how many cards she had to lay out to determine the best day to invite my father into her bed.” She thinks for a moment. “Correct me if I am wrong, or under a misapprehension, husband. The Lady Bresyn is from Melderyn, is she not?”

“She is.”

“And is she of your heritage, or mine?”

“Most definitely mine, I am afraid.”

“Yes, I was afraid of that too.”

At this point Lady Elena returns, leading the cook, who bears a tray with a flagon and two goblets, into the room. The cooks puts the tray down on a small table, then takes a step back. Lady Elena pours, hands one goblet to Thilisa, the second to Sir Ewen, and then discreetly withdraws with the cook in tow.

“Well,” Thilisa says, “I suppose a toast is in order.” She raises her goblet. “To barren marriages. Not ours, of course.”

Sir Ewen quaffs his drink and sets the goblet down. He crosses one leg over the other, and studies his wife’s features for a moment. “The conjunction of your father and Lady Bresyn has changed much. The events of the other night, for instance, almost certainly represent an attempt on the part of your father to have me killed.”

Thilisa gives Sir Ewen an arch look. “Do you mean to suggest that Lady Bresyn is directing my father’s actions now?”

“I am simply suggesting that the impulse for that attempt might have come from Lady Bresyn herself.”

She shakes her head, dismissing this notion. “He would not like that at all. He would direct all events. Or that would be his desire.” Her brow creases in consternation. “Can you tell me more, Ewen, about what happened the other night, and what it has to do with that strange little servant of yours yelling, practically in the middle of the night, ‘Danyes lies, Danyes lies!’”

Sir Ewen smirks. “The fire was set by an assassin, who intended the conflagration as a distraction to facilitate the taking my life.”

“Hmm. You seem hale enough. I take it said assassin failed?”

Sir Ewen glances down at himself. “Indeed.”

“And again, what does this have to do with Danyes? No doubt, Sir Danyes?”

“A previous attempt had been made upon myself, Sir Baris and Sir Aeomund Legith at the house of Sir Danyes Bernan.”

“Well, calling on Sir Danyes is often fraught with peril.”

Sir Ewen glances in the direction of the staircase. “He does seem inclined toward some shockingly louche forms of entertainment.”

“I should think you would have no scruples in that regard. I understand that you keep a mistress.”

Sir Ewen smiles coldly, his eyes locking on hers.

“I do not chastise you, husband. In fact, I approve of it. Far less likely that you will come to me to satiate your baser instincts... But let us return to the topic of my father, without casting any moral judgments on the activities of Sir Danyes, or anyone else for that matter. You say that he is now involved in two attempts to kill you, one with an assassin in your very house – in theory, my very house. Of this I disapprove. So how is it that Sir Danyes attempted to take your life? Again, you seem rather hale, so obviously he failed.”

“A company of men sent by your father came into the house while our host was availing himself of the privy, and attempted to kill everyone under Sir Danyes’s roof.”

“How many men did you say?”

“One company.”

“And I believe you said that rather loud Sir Baris was with you?”

“As well as Sir Aeomund Legith, of the Order of the Lady of Paladins.”

“And how many of your men did you take with you? Not many, I think, for that odd little servant girl had to come and get them.”

“There were none save myself and the two knights, and a female retainer attached to Sir Baris,” Sir Ewen says dismissively.

She digests this. “I am marveling, husband, at the fact that three or four of you were apparently sufficient to fight off a company of men at arms. Your prowess has never been less in doubt.”

Sir Ewen sighs. “Your father will need to send more than a company of men if he wishes to end my life, Thilisa.”

“No doubt he will draw the same conclusion ... Would you pour me another goblet of that wine, husband?”

Sir Ewen obliges and then sits back after refreshing his own drink as well. Thilisa sips at her glass, pondering for a moment, and then slowly muses aloud. “Will he escalate? Two attempts on your life are unusual. Not my father’s custom. And killing you will do no good, anyway. He must know by now that I am pregnant. Perhaps he hopes to avoid a spare.”

“I announced the pregnancy at one of Balim’s parties which your father and I both attended.”

“Oh. How happy I am to miss those.” She thinks for a moment, and then meets Sir Ewen’s gaze with icy detachment. “My father’s death,” she pronounces, “is overdue.”

Sir Ewen arches an eyebrow. “Indeed. Although his choice of a wife will complicate that. Bresyn will most certainly protect him with her talents.”

“He couldn’t have chosen better,” she agrees, “without ordering out to Melderyn for a wife. But he has not checkmated us, husband, merely checked us. And if he is aiming at you, it is not to prevent you from getting me with child. It is to get you off the board. He can be vindictive enough to want you not to be Earl of Vemion, even if it would be in name only. But that is not his principal concern, I think, for my father does not yet encompass the idea of his own death. Instead, he must be concerned about what danger these Deryni – is that the right word? – abilities of yours present to him, particularly now that he has someone who can instruct him.”

“Our chief concern in all this must be the safety of his grandson, who must one day sit as Earl of Vemion.”

“I do not fear for myself,” she shakes her head dismissively. “He would already have moved against me if he were to do something like that, and in cold blood that is beyond even him. I am still his child.” As she considers the glass in her hand, she appears to waver in this assertion. “I speculate only on that, husband. I do not believe he could do it in cold blood, but then I would not have believed some of these later actions of him either. As to my carrying his grandchild – did you say grandson?”

“I did.”

“You seem awfully sure.”

“My people have ways of knowing these things. The child that you bear is most certainly a son.”

“Hmm. A son. Well, isn’t that timely. If indeed I carry his grandson …”

“There is no reason for you to doubt it.”

“I do not, husband,” she says frankly. “You have said it. Your words are never used casually. That may be an interesting development. For, if I were to have borne you a daughter ... and to be frank, up until a moment ago that is what I thought. The old wives have ways of knowing these things, or so they claim. They have to a woman told me that I carry a girl. I wonder if a grandson would change his attitude, particularly if Lady Bresyn were to bear him a daughter. A daughter, who would not supplant me. Only a son could do that.” Then she shakes her head. “It is too great a risk, and I certainly think a son of his would trump a grandson of mine. Yes, his death remains overdue. I am certain, Ewen, you have already given some thought to this yourself. Particularly as my father has been so unspeakably rude as to encompass your death.”

Sir Ewen twirls his goblet slowly with his fingertips, as if studying the light refracting off its facets. “I have undertaken to have your father and Bresyn located. They are no longer in Tashal, that much is known. We have flexibility to choose the time and location for when we act, but steps must certainly be taken before Bresyn succeeds in bringing a new life into the situation.”

She looks to the ceiling and slowly repeats, “new life,” as if it were a particularly sour morsel of food. “The Wyvern will return to the lair as quickly as possible. He will feel neither comfortable nor safe so near to you, and he is not comfortable with Tashal in any event. If he is not already in Minarsas, he is on his way there. He would take the river at his earliest convenience. It is the most rapid conveyance between here and Minarsas.”

“Bresyn will need to die as well,” Sir Ewen suggests, “if she is with child.”

She picks up her embroidery. “Which is regrettable, but necessary.” She takes up the needle. “Who knows of these attempts on your life, husband? And when I ask that question, I do not mean those tiresome retainers of yours. I mean public figures.”

“The new Baron of Kolorn …”

“Tarien Bastune, yes.”

“ – not only witnessed their wedding, but it was his men whom your father used in the attempt at Sir Danyes’s home.”

“Oh, those were his men. A very clever move. Using Tarien in that way is just the sort of thing my father would have done. He does not like to get his own hands dirty. So, Tarien Bastune … they are an oily family. I do not like them. I think he will have to be removed, too.”

“Hardly. Having lost most of his men at Bernan’s house, he poses no further threat to me. In fact, I have furnished him with some of my own men to ensure his … personal safety.”

She frowns. “When you say ‘most of his,’ does that mean you did not drive off his company, but that they are essentially dead?”

“Every one of them is dead, in fact, save one who managed to escape through the kitchen and is now regrettably in your father’s hands.”

“Oh, that was sloppy,” she says with a cruel laugh. “Next time I would expect casualties of one hundred percent. If my math is right, you managed only ninety-five percent. Still, I suppose you are permitted to fall short from time to time.” She pauses to pat her belly. “At least you didn’t fall short when it mattered. Anyway, you have lent the Baron of Kolorn guards?”

“Not in the least. The men guarding Kolorn remain entirely under my command, and shall apprise me of his every activity. He had no choice, of course, but to accept the arrangement.”

“Delicious,” Thilisa smiles haughtily. “I agree, then. His death is not overdue. It might not even be necessary, if he proves better than his kin. I rather like his mother, to be honest, but his activities in this matter do not bode well for the future. They sound too much like his father’s clumsy maneuverings. I unfortunately lived for too many years close to ‘Sir Greon,’ as he insisted on being called. Or was it ‘Othis’? I can never remember which was his real name, and which was his fantasy persona.”

“I should think the machinations of his putative heir have tainted your regard for the family.”

“A bit,” she allows. “Lyndar’s death is not one of the things I lose any sleep over at all. But let us speak no more of that wretched family, except insofar as the present holder of the Barony can be of some use. I take it he is not presently well-disposed towards my father.”

“Correct. He is of the opinion that his interests would be better served should the Earldom of Vemion be held by us.”

“Yes.” Thilisa sets her embroidery back down, her eyes cold and implacable. “We must amend that, of course, to ‘me’. For I shall be Countess of Vemion. You may play with the toys of the Earldom; it will be I who runs it. Let us make certain that we never lose sight of that, husband. Royal blood may run in your veins, of such a kind as it is. But comital blood runs in mine.”

Sir Ewen’s voice remains soft and even, a slight smile touching his lips. His light gray eyes, however, are devoid of any expression. “My only ambition, wife, is that our son sits as Earl at Minarsas one day.”

“Then we remain in agreement, husband.” She picks up her book of devotions. “I will not ask you to bore me with your plans for my father. I assume that they are underway, and for personal reasons I do not wish to be burdened with them.”

Sir Ewen sets his goblet down and rises gracefully from his chair. He crosses to the staircase and then pauses, and turns back to her.

“Oh, and one final thing. I intend to host a tournament this summer, a tournament specifically to honor the memory of your late mother. What say you to that?”

Thilisa, head erect but her eyes grown wide with the notion, allows a grudging curl to soften her thin lips ever so slightly. “I say it will stick in the old bastard’s craw.” She turns her head away, and opens the devotional to where her ribbon lies. “If only he could choke on it.”


Sir Baris manages to close the front door of Raven Hall without dislodging the poor creature strapped to the bulky glove encumbering his left arm. He stands there for a moment, water streaming from his clothing and pooling onto the floor of Sir Ewen’s hall. The little raptor shakes itself free of the rain as well, its wings flexing, the small hooded head swiveling in futility. It occurs to Sir Baris, at this very moment, that he has absolutely no idea how long it will be before he is called upon to apologize to Sir Meden Curo and present his peace offering.

Sir Aeomund Legith, drying off by the fire in the hall in the wake of his own errands, calls over to Sir Baris. “How did it go, selling your house?”

Sir Baris groans and claps his forehead with his free hand, realizing that the hour is late and he has entirely forgotten his meeting with Sir Andorkil and Marhet of Lak.

Sir Aeomund shakes his head, unsurprised, and then peers at the object affixed to other knight’s arm. “Do you wave your bird at me, sir?”

Sir Baris laughs, and then frowns. “I think he needs a place to perch, and perhaps a birdbath. Or something to drink from.” He glances helplessly around the hall. Then, struck by a brilliant idea of a sudden, he calls out impulsively to Walin of Vastair, who is just then passing into the kitchen. “Walin! Is Mistress Kaelyn in the house?”

The steward shakes his head. “No, Sir Baris. I believe she said she was needing to get out. Something about having spent the better part of the morning listening to Master Sotor and his friends debate whether the elemental nature of the planets is cyclical or constant. She and the little one, Cekiya, left a short while ago.”

“Excellent!” Sir Baris exclaims, and bounds up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

A brief interval later, an unencumbered Sir Baris comes back down and joins Sir Aeomund by the fire. The latter fills him in on events the knight missed while pursuing his acquisition of the falcon. The burned out kitchen door, it appears, has been replaced with a stout new model of very fine quality. Sir Aeomund visited the castle this morning to arrange an appointment between the Prince and Sir Ewen, but unfortunately was stonewalled by the castle guard. Nevertheless, he had managed to send in a message to the prince asking for the meeting.

Later that afternoon a knock sounds upon Sir Ewen’s study door. Walin enters when bidden and says, “A messenger delivered this earlier for you, sir.” He hands Sir Ewen a folded piece of paper sealed with Sir Prehil’s arms. Sir Ewen breaks the seal and scans the missive. The salutation leaps off the page.

“EWEN! Baris apology to be made at Galopea’s Feast this even. You should attend, but otherwise keep it small.”


At Galopea’s Feast, the bouncers wave them in without ado. They find Sir Prehil lying in wait at a table by the door. He impatiently shoos away the other people sitting with him and gestures them over. They exchange greetings, and Sir Prehil glances at Sotor and looks from him to Sir Ewen. “Who’s this?”

“Sotor of Pelanby,” the physician answers for himself. “We had the pleasure the other night.”

“What other night?”

“Just so.”

“Ewen. WHO IS THIS MAN?”

Sir Ewen shakes his head, and gestures for Sir Prehil to get on with it. The knight nods, all business on this occasion.

“Right. Meden is upstairs. I’m hoping that, after this apology thing is dealt with, a brief counsel of sorts – Baris! What is that on your arm?”

Sir Baris shrugs. “Well, I thought it was a gift.”

“A fledgling?!”

“He calls it the Little Baris,” Sir Aeomund quips.

“You mean, the other Little Baris?” Prehil retorts.

“Now see here …” Sir Baris objects.

“It seems a most appropriate token of repentance,” Sotor adds earnestly.

Sir Prehil seems about to say something, then just shakes his head. “Alright. Meden is upstairs. He has reserved a private room for this event. He’s expecting Baris, and you, Ewen. Nobody else.” Sir Aeomund looks keenly disappointed. “Maybe later, but not now. Not even me in the room.

“Why must Sir Ewen abase himself to Curo?” Sir Aeomund counters.

“I don’t think he wants him there to abase himself. I think he wants him there as a guarantor of Sir Baris’s future behavior.”

Sir Ewen considers and nods. “That is acceptable.”

“One other thing. I am to await outside. With Meden’s men, and Sir Baris’ sword.”

“Sir Prehil,” Sir Aeomund objects, “there have been two assassination attempts on Sir Ewen in as many days. I am not going to stay down here in the common room while they go up there, surrounded by Curo’s men, and Sir Baris without his sword.”

Prehil appears to give this credence. “Aeomund, you can come up and wait outside with me. Lord Curo’s men will be outside with us. They will not be in the room.”

“How many are there?”

“Six.”

“Ach! No problem,” Sir Aeomund scoffs, laughing.

Upstairs, the six men at arms in question are indeed stolidly loitering outside the door to the small hall, bristling with swords, spears, shields, helms and shining mail. Upon the surcoat of each, a badge with the undifferenced arms of the Earldom of Neph are displayed. The apparent leader of Curo’s men at arms steps up and makes a respect to Sir Prehil.

“Sir Prehil, are these the gentlemen?”

“It is he,” Sir Prehil intones, “Sir Baris.”

The leader knocks on the door, and then says, “The two may go in.” Sir Baris gives up his sword to Sir Prehil, who immediately hands it off to Sir Aeomund. Sir Aeomund leans the sword against the wall, preferring out of long habit of training to keep his hands free. Sir Baris, with Sir Ewen at his side, enters the small hall. The door closes behind them.

The room, usually lavishly appointed with furniture, has been completely cleared save for a small banquet table and a number of chairs. Sir Meden Curo is seated in the head chair at the table. The table is bare. A tangible silence hangs in the air.

Sir Baris steps forward and clears his throat, his head held high. “Lord Curo. I apologize for my remarks last night about your noble father and your house. They were not worthy of a knight. By way of explanation, but not excuse, I was drunk and not in my right head. Although my behavior was, as you said, boorish and inexcusable, I humbly ask that you excuse it. Let me take this opportunity to express my deepest sympathies for your father, who I only just learned grew ill on his way to glorious battle. If only he had not been struck by illness, why, I have no doubt he would have shown the vikings what-for. Of course, please know that my outburst in no way reflects the views of my liege, Sir Ewen Ravinargh.” Sir Baris nods in Sir Ewen’s direction. “Indeed, he holds your family in the highest esteem, and was quite wroth with me when he learned of my boorish remarks last eve. I swear an oath never to speak ill of your father or your family again. I thank you for your level head considering my words, and hope you accept my apology.” As he takes a step back, Sir Baris appears to notice the bird strapped to his own arm. “Also, I offer this falcon fledgling as a token of my respect.”

Sir Meden says nothing, his face impassive. He looks fully at Sir Baris, holding his gaze for an uncomfortably long moment. Finally, he slowly turns to consider Sir Ewen.

“Sir Ewen, what say you on behalf of your liegeman?”

Sir Ewen meets Sir Medan’s gaze evenly. “Sir Medan, Sir Baris appreciates the opportunity to apologize for his loathsome behavior, and for your judicious handling of the matter.” He frowns, his voice measured and deliberate. “Furthermore, allow me to assure you that, should Sir Baris ever speak ill of your father or your family again, I shall publically thrash him through the streets of Tashal myself.”

Sir Meden considers this for a moment, and then responds. “Very well. I am content with this explanation. I am sure that it was indeed a surfeit of drink, and surfeit of silver.” His gaze drifts to the glove on Sir Baris’ left arm. “The bird is an interesting touch. What is its bloodline?”

Sir Baris appears briefly stumped by this, but then offers, “it comes from the household of the Earl of Balim.”

“I see.” He peers at it closely. “A kestrel?”

“Yes!”

“Hmm.” He slowly nods to Sir Baris. “Would you ask Sir Prehil to come in.”

Sir Baris manages to get the door open without disturbing the hooded fledgling. Sir Prehil peers into the room, then looks Sir Baris up and down, as if surprised to find the knight unbloodied. Sir Prehil beckons to Sir Aeomund, who has been silently sizing up Curo’s men all the while, and asks him to bring Sir Baris’s sword into the hall. Sir Meden sourly instructs Sir Baris to surrender the bird to one of the Neph men at arms without, which results in Sir Baris clumsily transferring the entire glove-fledgling assembly to the arm of an unfortunate guardsman.

“Your left arm!” Sir Baris hisses in knowledgeable exasperation as the incorrect limb is proffered.

Moments later, Sir Meden bids the three knights to seat themselves at the table. Sir Prehil goes over to a hitherto unnoticed side table, pulls off a cloth revealing a flagon and goblets, and carries them over to the table. He pours himself a drink and sits down.

“Sir Ewen,” Sir Prehil begins. “I suppose I should start. I mentioned a council. And then this bird business kind of interfered with me telling you about it. But I wanted it taken care of and out of the way. Isn’t that right, Sir Meden?”

Sir Meden slowly, deliberately, almost regally, inclines his head.

Sir Prehil forges onward. “Ewen. You remember at Ovendel Field, the forces of the Baron of Ternua did not exactly acquit themselves well?”

Sir Ewen frowns. “I remember it well.”

“I must tell you, so does the King’s Grace. And he has rendered his judgment on that. I must also tell you that not everyone present,” he pauses significantly, “agreed with that judgment.”

Sir Meden gives voice. “I was among those who did not agree with the judgment.”

“But,” Sir Prehil continues, “because of various factors, Meden chose to keep his council. The King has decreed that, for his obvious poltroonery in battle,” Sir Prehil glances sourly at Sir Baris, then back to Sir Ewen, “the King has declared his barony forfeit. At this very moment, the former Baron of Ternua, and his son Sir Anzarn Verdreth, are imprisoned in Caer Elend. The Baron’s sister, the Lady Derwen Verdreth, has been dismissed from her position as Master of Esoterica and banished from the kingdom. Sir Rindan Caldeth – you might be familiar with his brother, Ewen,” Sir Prehil says with a slight twinkle in his eye, “has been dismissed from his position as Master of the Horse, and told to quit the city of Tashal immediately. His wife, you may recall, is the Baron of Ternua’s other sister.”

Sir Meden interjects. “It is only by virtue of my father’s position in the kingdom that I too have not fallen under this ban. For my wife, Lady Ieara, is the Baron’s daughter.”

“There’s a little bit more, Ewen. The Baron has two other daughters. One of them, Elana, is married to Sir Tulath Kaphin, the sheriff of Vemionshire. He’s not in town and nothing has happened to him.”

Sir Meden says, “My other brother-in-law, the Baron’s last daughter, Evlena, is married to the new Baron of Kolorn, one Tarien Bastune. I am not sure if you have met him, Sir Ewen. I understand that my sister-in-law is in residence at Kolorn. I do not know where my brother-in-law is at the moment.”

“Ewen,” Prehil says, “here’s the long and short of it. The King’s pissed, and he has determined to destroy the Verdreth family. He’s done a pretty good job of it. Now, you may ask, why am I telling you this? My father, not to mention Sir Meden, is concerned because Ternua is a major strategic site on the Genin trail, not far from Kobing. Now, do not take me wrong. I think the King made the right decision. The former Baron was a disgrace. His men left the field, and abandoned his King and his fellows in battle. Even though he was not personally present, his son and heir Sir Anzarn was, and it was his poltroonery that nearly brought us all to disaster. As to whether the rest of the Verdreth family should suffer for the sins of its chief, that’s a different question. Our concern is Ternua.”

Sir Ewen, long silent, speaks up. “Has the King given any indication as to whom he favors for the Barony?”

Sir Prehil nods. “He has. He has proposed to grant it to Maldan Harabor, Earl of Osel. He would place the barony there, in compensation for various lands which were stripped from the Earldom of Osel some months ago.”

Sir Ewen raises an eyebrow in silent acknowledgement that three of his own manors are numbered amongst these lands. “Did the King take counsel of some of his lords in this decision of his?”

Sir Prehil shrugs. “It’s hard to say. It did not come out in the counsel meeting. The business there was threefold. Sir Meden brought his report from Gardiren. The King turned the business to the now-former Baron of Ternua. Once that was dealt with, he announced the disposition of the barony. Maldan Harabor was in counsel. All of the earls were represented. Maldan Harabor was present in person, as was the Earl of Balim. Prince Brandis, as Earl of Olokand. Sir Meden represented the Earldom of Neph, and Sir Rindan, who has now been banished from the city, represented the Earl of Vemion. One of the reasons Rindan was banished was he opposed the King’s decision on the Barony of Ternua, claiming it was too harsh a punishment. The King flew into a rage, and the next thing Sir Rindan knew he was packing his bags.”

“Have you taken counsel of Sir Scina on this? What does he think?”

“I have not, Ewen. I know not what he thinks. But I know what his father thought. His father supported the King in every particular.”

“Given the peril this kingdom has recently faced,” Sir Ewen says, “it is perhaps strange that the King should enrich a southern earldom at the expense of the north.”

Sir Meden’s smile is honeyed with cold-eyed malice. “I believe, Sir Ewen,” he says slowly, “that my lady wife has cost me a barony. Fortunately, I love her very much.”

Sir Aeomund speaks up at this point, clearing his throat. “Can I ask how far the King has taken the matter at this time?”

Sir Prehil leans in, hands planted on the table. “As far as I know, the King has not yet invested Harabor with the barony. It may yet be possible to change the King’s mind. The King could appoint a new baron, for instance, or at least assign a constable …”

Sir Aeomund presses. “Has any thought been given to granting the barony to the Order of the Lady of Paladins?”

Sir Meden smiles again, his voice freighted with irony. “My father would not approve, but my mother would, and certainly my uncle would wet himself at the very notion.”

At that point a knock on the door results in a pause in the conversation while several serving wenches come in bearing food and more drink into the room. After the doors close again, Sir Meden settles his gaze upon Sir Ewen.

“Sir Ewen, you may be wondering why we are discussing this matter with you. You are not a baron, or even an earl’s son.” He glances at Sir Baris, then back to Sir Ewen. “But you are a tenant-in-chief of the King. You have cut a path in Kaldor, and there are many who are beginning to wonder, when these questions are raised, what will you think? I have found myself wondering what such a man is like, and that it why I wanted to meet you. We had a momentary interlude, of which we will not speak, which had the potential to derail that, but happily has not. I find myself interested in what you think, and also in the thoughts of Sir Aeomund here, who I was not expecting, but as a member of the Order of the Lady of Paladins carries great weight with me, if not with my father. I am my mother’s son, in many ways, and my uncle’s nephew, and I revere the Lady. And thus, Sir Ewen, I would hear your opinion on these things, if only as an outsider who has proven a loyalty to Kaldor that some in this kingdom would do well to emulate.”

Sir Ewen accepts this remark with gravity, nodding thoughtfully. After a moment, he says, “The King, I think, is concerned with the stability of His realm, and feels that His Grace’s interest lies in minimizing destabilization in the south. I believe that any suggestion we make should well consider the King’s concern with this, and his desire to balance the interests of those of comital rank.”

Sir Meden leans forward, the trace of a smile upon his lips. “Would you say then, Sir Ewen, that the King is concerned with that stability in the south, and because of the unrest in the north he seeks to enhance the stability in the south by giving that barony to Maldan Harabor?”

“Precisely,” Sir Ewen agrees.

Sir Meden turns to Sir Prehil. “Prehil, I believe tonight’s bill is on you.”

Sir Prehil grins ruefully, and slaps the table. “So it is. Ewen, you’ve just cost me a lot of money, you son of a bitch.”

Turning back to Sir Ewen, Sir Meden says, “Prehil simply bet me that you would not agree with that assessment.”

“What was Sir Prehil’s assessment?” Sir Aeomund asks.

Sir Prehil thinks for a moment. “My view was, it was Balim’s behind-the-scenes machinations to prevent Neph from getting any more powerful.”

Sir Meden shrugs. “That may yet be the case.”

Sir Aeomund wonders aloud, “Should another alternative come to light, would the King be open to suggestions, or is he decided on this?”

“We don’t know,” Sir Prehil admits. “I hope he’s open. I don’t think Harabor getting control of Ternua is a terrible thing, but it’s not the best thing. It would leave my father defending the south at the same time he is expected to deal with viking incursions in the north. Which are hopefully ended for this year, but maybe not.”

Sir Ewen shifts in his seat, his eyes moving to Sir Meden. “Is there an alternative to Harabor of sufficient merit to sway the King?”

“That, Sir Ewen, was a question I wanted to ask you. I would be very interested to hear your opinion – and those of …” Sir Meden pauses, “your knights. Your opinion, as an outsider with a keen interest in Kaldor.”

Sir Ewen considers for a moment, his gaze resting thoughtfully upon the goblet in his hand, and then he responds. “I think Sir Aeomund’s reference to the Order of the Lady of Paladins is worthy of consideration. If the King were to bestow Ternua Keep upon the Order, the Order which saved his life at Ovendel Field, he could perhaps facilitate the Kaldoric members of the Order consummating their schism with the branch in Melderyn. The King might thereby facilitate the knights remaining in Kaldor in establishing their own, independent Order, one beholden entirely to the Kaldoric Crown.”

Sir Meden and Sir Prehil look at each other, and then both shrug their shoulders. Sir Meden gestures to Sir Prehil to speak, causing the latter to squirm a little in his chair.

“Well … in an ideal situation, Ewen, that’s the right solution. But there’s a problem. Back before the King became king, and he was wooing the Lady Hesena, there was an oath. You know about the oath?”

Sir Ewen indicates that he does.

Sir Prehil slowly continues, choosing his words with care. “Well, at the time of succession, the oath proved irrelevant. But the King has not yet forgiven the Laranian church for exacting that oath, and jeopardizing his path to the throne in the first place. As a result, he has always been somewhat … parsimonious … in his rewarding of the Laranian church for anything. Even saving his life. He’s not about to give them a keep.”

“It would be a neat solution to the problem,” Sir Ewen maintains, “and perhaps afford His Grace a unique relationship to a church which he feels has impeded him in the past.”

“You’re preaching to the converted on that, Ewen,” Sir Prehil says, “but the King is not open to it. There is no chance of him granting a holding of that magnitude to the Laranians. He would consider it giving them too much power.”

Sir Aeomund asks, “What if he gave it to Baron Firith? Elevated him to an Earl?”

“Well there’s a notion, Aeomund, which I very dearly like!” Sir Prehil avows, while Sir Meden chuckles, “but that, too, is not going to happen. But for completely different reasons.”

“Indeed,” Sir Ewen agrees, putting his goblet down on the table. “And in that case, gentlemen, I would suggest that the matter seems worthy of greater thought than fifteen minutes acquaintance with the conundrum affords me at this point.”

“That is true, Sir Ewen. If you wish some time to consider the notion, that is acceptable.” Sir Meden smiles. “We did just spring it on you.”

“I would suggest, then,” Sir Ewen says, “that we reconvene tomorrow evening.”


Kaelyn of Aletta is already disquieted in her mind when she returns to Raven Hall that evening. Cekiya always proves a challenging tutor when it comes to dagger-work, incisive but maddeningly unpredictable, and while Kaelyn appreciates these sessions they always leave her exhausted and frustrated in equal measure. But this time the girl’s odd remarks, referencing dreams of eyes and black cats and disjointed accounts of lurking and stalking, seem more disturbing than usual. And while one can never quite be certain about events when Cekiya is recounting them, it seems fairly clear to Kaelyn just what happened earlier this morning.

Sir Ewen, she gathers, had appeared next door at the Baron of Kolorn’s residence to perform an impromptu inspection of the guards posted there, during the course of which he pronounced some agreed-upon phrase which indicated to Cekiya, who had concealed herself there overnight, that the plan to blind the young Baron had been cancelled. This decision, Kaelyn understands, resulted from the interview at Aethel Atan’s the previous night, which Sir Ewen clearly felt complicated, or even obviated, the operation, and perhaps put Cekiya at undue risk. Cekiya, thwarted in her mission and impelled by her dark preoccupations, apparently then took to the streets of Kaldor and enucleated the eyes of a travelling tinker, who had been lying asleep against the wheel of his handcart full of pots and pans.

Exhausted, climbing slowly up the two flights of stairs to her study, Kaelyn shudders sympathetically at the fate of the poor, innocent, ersatz victim. She places her hand upon the latch, reflecting upon how glad she is to be back home, and swings the door inward.

She catches her breath.

The general chaos is what strikes her first. Puddles of water pooling on the floor. Half-dried stains splotching the walls and ceiling. Astarok’s huge font somehow befouled and darkly spattered, its sides still gleaming with rivulets of splashed water from some unimaginable disturbance. Parchment strewn everywhere. Nothing in its proper place. Even the precious new spell, only just this morning acquired from Garth of Kerrina and lovingly placed by her own hands upon the desk, has inexplicably been stained and creased and tossed upon the floor. Standing there in the doorway, Kaelyn’s mind is simply unable to make sense of it for one long moment.

She remembers to breathe, and then it clicks somehow in her numbed mind. It is on, she realizes, everything.

Every single horizontal surface in her study is covered in falcon guano.
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