by Tim Stead
“I know all this,” she said. “You forget I lived here for most of my life.”
“What you know and what you bear in mind may be different, Felice. Be generous.”
Their muted conversation was ended by the sound of many hurrying feet in the corridor beyond, and a group of five men entered. The seneschal was foremost among them. He was not an old man, but his face was lined with care, and there was a hint of grey bleaching the brown hair at his temples. He was clean shaven, and looked them over once with his serious brown eyes before bowing deeply.
“Mage Lord, you honour us.”
“More than you know, Lord Panseer,” Serhan responded.
Felice could feel the seneschal’s eyes on her as soon as he rose from his bow. It was odd, she thought, that she should be the stranger here. She knew this man’s face from the dozens of times she had seen him ride through the town, from the great day when they had learned that they were free. It was as familiar to her as her own. She was one of his people, and yet now stood unrecognised before him, an object of curiosity.
“My lord seneschal,” she said. “I am honoured to meet you at last.” She bowed to him, and she could see that he was pleased, if a little surprised by the forwardness of this young woman who travelled with the Mage Lord.
“Allow me to introduce you,” Serhan said. “Lord Panseer, this is Felice Caledon, or more properly the Mage Lord Felice Caledon, the new lord of East Scar.”
Inside, Felice winced. It was as bald a statement of usurpation as she had ever heard spoken, and she was astonished that the seneschal’s face showed only mild surprise. The man must have iron self control. The same could not be said for his men. They were officers, well trained, but she could see that all of them bristled as though challenged to fight. She recognised it as another test. There were always tests with Cal. He was always pushing, always making things difficult.
“We should speak of this in private,” the seneschal said.
It was wrong, though. One of the aphorisms that Cal had drummed into her, a simple rule; what was started in public should be finished in public, otherwise those who are denied witness will think the worst.
“My Lord Panseer,” she said, “I would greatly welcome your hospitality, but before we do so I would like to clarify my Lord Serhan’s remarks.”
They stopped in the act of turning away, and Panseer looked at her more closely, as though looking for something that would tell him more about this girl who thought to clarify the Mage Lord’s words.
“I was raised in the Scar,” she said. “I grew up under the rule of the Faer Karan, and like everyone else, I suffered, and then I lived for two years under your rule, Lord Panseer. Since then I have travelled. I have been to Blaye, to Samara, even to White Rock, and I have never seen a people happier under their lord as the people of East Scar. And so it shall remain. You will continue to exercise power. My Lord Serhan has taught me many wonderful things, many secrets, many skills, but he has not taught me how to rule. This I shall learn from you, and perhaps a time will come when you will trust me to govern your people, my people, as well as they should be governed.”
“Fair words,” Panseer said, “But words are only intentions, even if honestly spoken.”
“Quite so, my Lord, but you shall see that deeds follow words as well as I can make them. I am Scar folk, and you know that we speak plainly and as we mean to act.”
“I can vouch for her bluntness, Lord Panseer,” Cal said.
Felice ignored him. Cal was inclined to snipe from the fringes if he found himself somehow not central to a conversation. She ranked it as a character flaw. She had noted several.
“Given that you have the Lord Serhan at your side I could not ask for more, Karana,” Panseer said.
“There is one more thing, my lord…”
“Yes?”
“My family. Can you send for them? We will be many hours in discussions, I have no doubt, and I have not seen them for eighteen months. Can you send for them?”
“Your family? Of course. The name is Caledon?” He stopped and looked at her again, surprise in his face. “Marcos Caledon?”
“My Father.”
“But he is here,” Lord Panseer exclaimed. “I was speaking with him not ten minutes ago. All the council are here.”
He indicated a direction and Felice took three steps, stopped, excused herself from the company, ignoring Cal’s frown, and hurried away. It took all her will power to stop herself from running. Suddenly she wanted very much to see her father, to touch his hands, to look into his eyes. It was almost as though she needed proof to believe that he was real again.
She rounded a corner and saw two men talking by a window. Her father, Marcos, was the one on the right. She could see only his back, but she knew him by the bend of his neck, by the way he waved his right hand to beat time with his words as he spoke, by the brown wool coat with the leather inlays that he wore. It was as though she had just stepped through a door and travelled back a year and a half.
“Father!”
He turned. There was a moment of incomprehension and then he recognised her. He spoke a word to his companion and strode towards her, an expression of pure joy breaking out on his face. His arms reached for her as they fell into a warm embrace.
“Felice, I had not thought to see you again,” he said.
“I said I would return,” she said. “I told Kendric, and the letter I sent from Woodside…”
“I know, but… anyway I am glad that you are here.” He held her at arms length and inspected her, and Felice did the same. Her father had hardly changed. There was perhaps a little more grey in his hair, but nothing more than that.
“You’ve changed,” he said.
“Have I?” She must have done, she supposed. So much had happened. It felt like she had been gone a decade, and in another way that she had never been away at all.
“Aye, you’ve grown up,” he said.
“I’m nineteen,” she replied.
He nodded, but he wasn’t talking about age. “Are you here to stay?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“You’re going away again.”
“No. I’ll be staying, but I’ll be staying here, at the castle.”
“I don’t understand.” Marcos let her arms go, and she felt a small but irretrievable distance grow between them. Perhaps it would have been easier to ask Cal for another place, to always have that distance.
“I have been chosen to be Mage Lord of East Scar, Father.”
Her father was no fool. She had written to tell him that Cal was teaching her magic so he must have expected something, but apparently not this. He stared at her.
“Mage Lord? You have learned that much?”
“It seems I have a talent for it,” she said.
Marcos bowed his head. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to say that she was still Felice, that everything would be all right, but it would be a lie, and honesty stayed her hand.
“You are no longer my daughter,” he said, and she understood. These were the words of the coming of age, the time when children ceased to be children and took responsibility for their own lives. Usually this would be done in front of family and friends, usually on the eighteenth birthday.
“You have taught me much,” she responded. “I thank you for the food that filled my belly, for the clothes that kept me warm and the roof that kept me dry.”
“It was my duty, my pleasure, my honour,” he said.
“A duty now discharged, the pleasure and the honour I shared.”
“You are Felice Caledon,” he said.
“You are Marcos Caledon,” she replied. They took each others hands, formally. She decided that it was not enough. “Love and respect survive,” she added. “They do not need father and daughter. Felice and Marcos will more than suffice.”
Marcos smiled. “I hope so,” he said. The formality was over. “There are so many things I wish to ask you, Felice. Will you come to dinner to
night?”
She shook her head. “Not tonight. Duty requires that I settle things here. I must make new friends before I see old family. You will forgive the slight?”
Marcos bowed, a shallow bob of the head. “The company of the Mage Lord of East Scar is an honour at any time. Now I should go. Your mother will be delighted that you have returned, and your brother will burst with pride when he hears the news.”
“I will see you soon,” she said.
Marcos nodded, smiled again, and walked away with a light step. The turn of the stairs took him away and for a moment Felice stood alone in the corridor.
It would never be the same, of course, but that much was true of anyone. Time passed. Things changed. Felice turned and walked back up the corridor with a measured tread. There was no need to hurry. Everything was waiting for her just around the corner.
Table of Contents
1 – The Scar
2 – Yasu
3 – A Crime
4 – Grief
5 – The Sea Swift
6 – Pek
7 – Samara
8 – Caravan
9 – Stone Island
10 – White Rock
11 – The Healing
12 – Ekloi
13 – Alder
14 – A New World
15 – A Hunt
16 – Prisoner
17 – To Woodside
18 – Herrick
19 – Woodside
20 – The Killer
21 – The Assassin
22 – Execution
23 – Justice
24 – Punishment
25 – The Black Sword
26 – Prisoners
27 – Chosen
28 – East Scar
