by Joy Demorra
Despite his sour mood, Nathan leaned forward to examine it. Quartz crystal had become a prized commodity in recent years, ever since the Academy of Natural Sciences had found a way to trap a magical charge. It had something to do with the natural resonance of the minerals or something of the sort. It was all Ancient Ecrecian as far as Nathan was concerned, but he knew good news when he heard it.
“Aye,” his father said, his chest puffing out proudly. “We’ll have them scholars paying through the nose for it in no time. But… we didn’t come here to talk about rocks, did we?”
“No…” Nathan lowered his eyes to the floor. “Listen, Dad, I—”
“Nathan, lad, I’m sorry,” his father said before Nathan could finish apologizing. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I know things are…” He seemed to struggle for a moment. “Well, I know how things are. Things haven’t been easy for you. And I likely haven’t helped with that.”
“No,” Nathan agreed, wary of where this newfound empathy was coming from.
“And I’ll grant you, the idea of you moving on isn’t without merit.” His father stood and began rummaging through the shelves behind his chair. “I wasn’t going to do this so soon, but if you think you’re ready…”
Confused, Nathan tilted his head to the side. “Ready for what?”
His father dropped a hefty, leather-bound tome in front of Nathan with an expectant look. “Why, a project, of course.”
“Doing what?” Hesitant, Nathan turned the aptly named dust jacket and coughed when a small cloud rose into the air. “What is this?”
“That, my lad, is The Very Nearly Complete History of the Northern Wereclans.” His father thumbed fresh tobacco into the bowl of his cob pipe. “Names, titles, local histories, and lineages. All that sort of thing.”
“So just some light bedtime reading, then,” Nathan replied dryly, turning over the brittle pages with interest. Some of the writing didn’t even look like letters. “Is this in Octish?”
“Only some of it. Not to worry, you’ll get the hang of it in no time. Your Uncle Ivar will help you with that.”
Nathan, mid page turn, stopped and lifted his gaze back to his father. “Uncle Ivar?”
“Yes.”
“Uncle Ivar is coming back down from the Black Isles… to help me learn Octish?”
“Yes,” his father replied as though it were the most natural thing in the world to take up a new language so long dead that there were iron age burial mounds concealed deep beneath the earth that had more recent runes carved onto their stony bones.
“And why would he do that, Dad?” Nathan asked with a growing sense of foreboding.
“Well, son…” His father coughed awkwardly while continuing to fiddle with his pipe. Nathan had never seen his father look nervous before. Angry, yes. Sometimes even sad, but never nervous. “I’ve been thinking, we’ve all been thinking, and we think it’s high time you took on a more active role in running the family. I’ve talked with all the Septs, and we’ve agreed that when the time comes for Miles to take my place as Laird you’ll take your place beside him. As his Counsel.”
Nathan blinked slowly. Back when the werefolk had been divided up into warring fiefdoms and clan chiefs ruled as kings, the position of Counsel had been a sacred position of trust with authority second only to the Laird. To be a Counsel was to be the extension of the Laird’s will. They served as an advisor in both times of war and in times of peace. Entire wars had been won and lost based on a Laird’s Counsel. Much could be gleaned about a new Laird by the Counsel he chose to keep. While the role was mostly ceremonial these days, it was still considered a great honor.
An honor usually reserved for a newly-appointed Laird. And Nathan’s father had just forced Miles’s hand, turning it into an act of puppetry to favor the second broken son.
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” Nathan asked, wiggling a finger in his right ear just in case it had been a trick of his hearing. “I could have sworn you just said you declared me as Miles’s Counsel.”
His father pursed his lips into a thin line, saying nothing.
“Counsel. Counsel? Dad, what the—oh no, no no no.” Nathan leaned back; the chair under him creaked with the force of his movement. “Is this why you summoned a gathering of the Septs? Were you taking a vote?”
His father sighed, turning his gaze toward the ceiling as he spoke. “In the event of my passing, or retirement, whichever comes first, it is decreed that the Septs acknowledge Nathaniel James Northland as Counsel to—”
Nathan blinked again and scrubbed his eyes just in case this was some awful nightmare he could still wake up from. “No.”
“Nathan,” his father warned. “The Septs have agreed—”
“The Septs have agreed to a conferment of rank they have no authority to make?”
“Of course not.”
Hackles rising, Nathan demanded, “Then what? What do the Septs have to do with anything if Miles has already decided? Which, by the way, this might have been nice to hear from him.” It didn’t matter that his older brother was still deployed. If Miles could communicate his willingness to have Nathan be his Counsel with their father, then Miles could bloody well send Nathan a Gods-damned note.
His father remained silent for several moments; his jaw worked as he eyed Nathan. “Nathan, you’re my boy, and I love you—”
Nathan rolled his eyes. “Oh, always good when you have to start an explanation like that!”
“Nathan!” his father snapped his name like a warning, and Nathan fell into sullen silence. When his father spoke again, his voice was as gruff as ever. But this time it was punctuated with weariness rather than annoyance—as though every single one of his one hundred and eighty-six years were suddenly weighing on him. “You’re right, Miles should have told you himself. But given the circumstances of your return, I thought it prudent to intervene now. And honestly, I’m surprised at you. Surely you must see the predicament you’re in. You had a good run in the military. Forty years is nothing to sneeze at. But you’ve no future left. Your hearing is shot, your arm is—” he waved toward Nathan’s left side as Nathan braced it self-consciously “—a mess. And you can’t change. I know we thought things might get better once you got home, but it’s been months now. Frankly, lad, I thought you’d be glad to have some assurance of your place.”
Nathan squeezed his eyes shut. Some assurance of my place.
It was almost like being shot again, except somehow infinitely worse because this time, there was no exit wound for the pain to follow. “I see.”
“It’s not like that,” his father said, his face turning even dourer when Nathan laughed, the sound ugly and venomous with pain.
“Isn’t it?”
“No,” his father said firmly. But he made no other word or gesture of comfort. Instead, he merely stared Nathan down across the divide of the table, his yellow eyes sharp and fierce in the firelight's glow; the eyes of a wolf through and through. His father had always said Nathan’s blue eyes made him too much like his mother: too stubborn and soft-hearted by turns; too much of the old magic in him and not enough wolf. Nathan had always thought he’d meant it affectionately, but now he wasn’t so sure.
“Did Miles really pick me?” Nathan asked quietly.
Nathan’s father had the grace to look down at this desk. “Miles has accepted my decision, and he will abide by it.”
Miles has accepted, Nathan thought, his stomach sinking even further. The only thing his brother had ever accepted was that he couldn’t punch the moon. And even then, Nathan wasn’t sure it wasn’t for lack of trying.
“Don’t mistake my motives, boy.” His father seemed to sense Nathan’s line of thought. “You might think I do this out of fondness, and perhaps, aye, maybe I do. But I also do this out of duty. Not just to you, but to my clan and this land. I don’t think your brother can govern without you. Hells, I know he can’t.”
“But—” Nathan began, swallowing his protest whe
n his father raised a finger in warning.
“Don’t tell me he doesn’t need you, Nathan. He’s quick on his feet and a champion fighter, but he’s not steady. He’ll never ride out to meet the tenants. He’ll never climb down a mineshaft and pick ore or shake hands with the folk who put food on his table. He’ll not have the patience for Parliament. Gods help me, you might be able to read, but sometimes I wonder about him.”
Nathan’s face flushed hot with secondhand embarrassment. It was one thing to think about your sibling that way, but it was quite another to hear your parent say it. Nathan felt like he ought to say something in his brother’s defense.
His father never gave him a chance. “You’re not dim, Nathaniel,” his father carried on levelly. “You always knew this day would come. Even when you were children, he’d look ‘round to make sure you were right behind him. You’re his natural-born right hand. Your place is here. In this castle. By his side. Even he knows this. Why do you think he was so upset when you took that promotion and left his regiment?”
Weighing his thoughts, Nathan remained silent for several moments. “And if I refuse?”
His father blinked at him as though the thought had never occurred to him. “Then that blow to the head knocked more sense out of you than I bargained for.”
“But Counsels are supposed to be old,” Nathan protested, dragging his fingers through his hair until it stood on end. “I’m not even seventy yet. What do I know about running a pack? What do I know about mediating clan negotiations? And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“You keep doing what you’re doing,” his father said firmly. “You get better.”
“And what if I don’t?” Nathan plowed on before his father could stop him. “What if I never get better, and this is all I’ll ever be? What if it gets worse? What if I die?”
“Nathan,” his father barked. For the first time in his life, Nathan saw his father look afraid. “Never say that again. Do you hear me? Do you have any idea what it’d do to your mother if she heard you talking like that? There wasn’t a moment since you were injured when she wasn’t out at the groves praying. I had to carry her home most nights.”
“And what about me?” Nathan demanded, gesturing wildly to himself. “Do you have any idea what it’s doing to me, having to pretend like everything's fine all the time? Like I’m not scared shitless at every moment? Like I don’t know I’m letting you all down—”
“Nathan—”
“I can’t do this.” Nathan’s voice came out somewhere between a gasp and sob. “I can’t. I can’t be here, not like this. I can’t take the pity. The whispering. The way people look at me like I’m a monster.”
“They don’t,” his father said, leaning across the desk as though he wanted to snatch Nathan up in his arms, and for a moment, Nathan wished he would. “You’re not.”
Looking pleadingly at his father, Nathan said, “I can’t do it, Dad. I just can’t. I need out. I need… I need something. Something more than this. Please. I need to know I can still be myself…”
“Okay.” His father settled back in his chair and held his hands up. “Okay. If that’s what you need, then it’s what you need.” He waited until Nathan’s breathing had slowed, then said, “Tell me about this posting.”
“Howlzein mentioned it…”
“Of course, he did,” Nathan’s father sighed. “I should have known.”
“He thinks I should apply for it. It’s out in Eyrie, but—”
“Eyrie?!” His father cut him off abruptly. If he’d been in wolf form, his fur would have been standing on end. “What the bloody hell do you want to go to Eyrie for?”
“They’re looking for a new guard captain. It’s paperwork mostly from the sound of it. Quiet for sure, but it’s got a decent pension and the pay’s not bad.” Nathan frowned. “Besides, what’s wrong with Eyrie? Mum’s family was from Eyrie.”
“And that should have been your first inkling there’s something wrong with the place,” his father barked back, still incredulous. “The fact that it’s bloody swarming with vampires should be the next!”
“Technically, I think they glide—”
“You know fine well what I mean! Honestly, Eyrie! What was Howlzein thinking?”
“I think he thought it might help me find my feet again.” Nathan shrugged one-sidedly. “If they’d even want me.”
“They’d be bloody lucky to have you,” his father growled, and Nathan felt the first flicker of hope light in his chest. “Captain of the Guard… It’s hardly valor and glory, boy,” his father warned. “It’s not like peacekeeping in a war zone. You’ll be bored stiff once you get there.”
“At least let me try,” Nathan pleaded, desperate to take advantage of this opening. “I know it’s not much, but…” He shrugged again. “Look where valor and glory got me.”
His father remained silent, his fingers absently drumming out an anxious rhythm against the surface of his desk. After a while, he gave Nathan a sidelong glance. “You’re sure you’re up to it?”
Nathan smiled weakly. “I’d like to find out.”
With a resigned sigh, Nathan’s father gave up. “Fine, but on one condition; you come home if it’s too much, and you take the book with you.” He tapped the tome in front of Nathan emphatically. “And if Miles asks for you, you come running. Understand?”
“Technically, that’s three conditions…”
“Nathan!”
“Yes, Dad.” Near dizzy with relief as he stood, Nathan leaned over the desk to press his forehead against his father’s in an impulsive display of affection. “I understand. Thank you.”
Even as he returned the gesture, his father let out a little huff of laughter. “Eyrie,” he sighed, picking up his forgotten pipe and setting the mouthpiece between his teeth as Nathan turned to leave. “What a place.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Still Early Spring, 1888
Dawn broke, shattering with all the grace and gentility of an icepick being driven through a watermelon. Clutching his head in case it fell off, Vlad sat up slowly. It took several dazed moments for him to comprehend the loud thumping sound was someone knocking at the door and not just the pounding in his skull.
He slumped against the headboard and pulled a pillow over his head. “Go away! I’m dead.”
The door opened regardless as Swithin stepped into the room. “Very droll, sir,” the thrall drawled nasally.
Vlad lifted the pillow from his face to crack a bloodshot eye at his manservant. “Swithin, I don’t suppose you could be persuaded to stake me?”
“No, sir.” Swithin gave him a tight little smile, his eyes seeming to flick around the chaos strewn about the room without moving. “Just like every other time sir has asked this century. Will sir require—” he paused diplomatically “—help… getting dressed this morning?”
“Probably,” Vlad muttered. He started to yank the pillow back over his head, but not before he noticed the knife embedded in the wooden canopy of the bed frame. He frowned at it as he tried to remember how it had gotten there.
There was another diplomatic pause, then Swithin cleared his throat. “It’s the first of the month, sir,” he said, and Vlad groaned and clamped the pillow over his head in despair. “The coach is waiting, and the ferry will depart within the hour.”
“Yes, thank you, Swithin.” Vlad rolled upright, dragging most of the bed with him as he lurched to the closet. “I will be there presently.” In body, he thought as he fished an empty bottle of absinthe from the basin of his washstand. Along with several levels of spirit.
One miserable ferry ride and copious amounts of coffee laced with absinthe later, Vlad was decanted somewhat respectfully onto the bustling streets of Ingleton, the thriving hub of global commerce and capital city of the Nevrondian Empire.
Much had been done to update the city in the last few centuries with new buildings seeming to crop up every couple of decades. The Parliament building was one of them. Newly built a
nd still framed by scaffolding, the sleek white marble stood out like a beacon of hope and modernity amidst the smog-blackened streets. Though, regrettably, the same could not be said of those currently seated around the cabinet table.
“Order, order!” Lord Woolcroft bellowed, trying to bring some semblance of discipline to the proceedings. “Gentlemen! This is no way for peers of the realm to conduct themselves!”
Sitting as close to the door as he could get without being in the hallway, Vlad watched the proceedings unfold. It was like watching a tennis match, if tennis were a blood sport capable of inciting a civil war. It didn’t seem to matter that they were all technically on the same side.
“We should send in the army! Show the mob who’s bally well in charge, what!” Lord Twoforths raged, banging his withered hand on the table in front of him.
A roar of agreement followed, and Vlad sighed, rolling his eyes.
“Do you have something to say, Viscount?” Lord Woolcroft asked.
Vlad froze as all eyes in the room turned to him. Usually, everyone ignored him, even when it was his turn to speak. Vampires weren’t allowed to engage properly in politics. It had been deemed too unfair to all the other soulless bloodsucking parasites attempting to manipulate the government. But apparently, Vlad had been a little too obvious to ignore.
He swiftly rose to his feet and inclined his head. “Forgive me, my lord. I intended no disrespect.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Twoforths muttered.
Vlad fixed him with a chilly smile. It was no secret that Twoforths detested vampires. His general animosity toward the supernatural was well-known. But even Vlad thought the silver tie pin in his cravat was a little gauche.
“And how is our dreary little Eyrie, Viscount?” Lord Woolcroft asked, using Vlad as a handy segue to drag the topic away from the riots breaking out up and down the length of the Empire to less troubling matters. “Still raining?”
