by Marin Landis
The Lord of the Manor had dragged, probably not personally, a plush, leather chair from the drawing room out here some years ago. Initially to watch his son train and then started to feel at peace beneath the shade of the old Willow. Most men would have a study, or a reading room in which they would sit and think. Mikael had the tree. And there he sat when the trio of new and old Brothers of the Hammer arrived having made the journey from the Temple in impossible time, Melvekior not really even wondering how that could be, but becoming distracted when he even contemplated how odd it was that he wasn’t concerned. Even thinking about the trip gave him a headache so he put it aside for now.
It was a cool afternoon, Wynflid’s twins were playing beneath the tree and Mikael sat watching them, an odd look on his face. Melvekior was shocked, Mikael couldn’t bear children and often made excuses so that he didn’t have to associate with his own. The fact that he now happily watched two that weren’t his own was worrying.
“Father,” Melvekior said reservedly, as he alighted from his mount.
Mikael, who must have heard them arrive, stood and beamed, “My son! Come to my arms,” he held his arms wide in an uncharacteristic display of affection. There was a manly exchange of embraces and back-slaps and then it was the turn of Aeldryn and even Ushatr, whose return hug was as hearty as that from the Earl. “Thank you for bringing my son back to me, shall we retire indoors?” It wasn’t a question. Wynflid came scurrying over and collected the children and also an instruction for refreshments to be brought.
Walking into the manse, all his questions were brushed aside and the all followed him through the lobby into the dining room and they sat in silence while the maid fussed with cups and flasks and brought some pies, which Ushatr tucked into instantly, the others sporting a lack of appetite.
“Making new friends, I see.” Mikael laughed and a little of the tension left the room. He sat at the head of the dark wood dining table, the giant portraits of his ancestors looming down.
“I joined the Brotherhood, father. I felt you would approve.” Melvekior said.
“I do, son, I do. Did they manage to teach you anything?”
“Pah! Only how to drink and kill the risen dead. He knows more than most about fightin’, that’s fer sure.” The booming voice of Ushatr felt louder than usual in that confined space.
“Father, why did you not tell me about Mother, and why did you not tell me you were ill? I know you, you’ve kept this to yourself for longer than you’ll admit.”
“Those are questions best answered after supper, when we have a chance to speak alone.” He turned to the Silver Bear. “Ushatr, it has been a while, I see my money is being well spent on keeping you in fine food.”
“We put it to good use, Martelle. Better I dare say than you would. You should probably invest in a decent wine cellar,” he emptied his cup and Wynflid scurried over to fill it.
And so it went, all through the afternoon and into dinner. Badinage and boasting, like they had not a care in the world. Ushatr seemed to be one of those people who makes even the most serious business, casual. They didn’t get a chance to speak alone and he’d had quite enough of alcohol. On the urging of Aeldryn he said goodnight at a couple of hours after sunset and sat beneath the tree thinking of the times with Ottkatla, his father sitting in that ridiculous chair. There was an odd sense of melancholy about him, he didn’t want his father to die though his concern didn’t seem shared by Mikael. His last memory was wondering when, if ever, he would see the red haired mountain woman again and feeling guilt about thinking of anything else but the matters directly at hand.
“There’s no sunrise quite like this one,” he heard his father’s voice as if from a distance and a hand on his shoulder convinced him that it was no dream. He opened his eyes. The sun was coming up and the grass was wet, though a blanket had been draped over him sometime between when he fell asleep and this morning. Aeldryn probably, Mikael would think it weak to admit feeling the cold. He propped himself up on two stiff arms.
“Good morning, father, I can’t believe I fell asleep out here. Or that you’re awake so early.” He chuckled hoping to not have offended the older man. He always thought his father had looked the same all through his childhood, but looking at him now, the gray in his hair seemed more pronounced, the wrinkles deeper, his face more gaunt. We’re all aging, he thought, some have more of a head start.
“I observe the morning Orisons more often than you think, Melvekior. I am, after all, a pious man.” He stood and at the exact time that he did, the first ray of sun speared its way through the bank of trees to the east. Mikael raised his arms in greeting and in supplication, the words of the morning prayer tumbling solemnly from his mouth, echoed, if one listened closely, by another, deeper, voice, some short distance away.
Hail to Thee who art the Sun in His revealing
To Thee who bringeth light from the darkness
Sehar before Thy chariot
Creation in obeisance
From the House of the Night we welcome Thee
Melvekior did not join in but marveled at the power he felt surging around him. Communion with Mithras was a personal thing but the faithful would gather strength from their twice daily prayers. An acolyte in service to the Sun God, Melvekior would be expected to perform such rites but he knew in himself that he served a more urgent purpose. His own.
“As I was saying,” Mikael said as he sat himself down on the grass, opening a small bag he carried at his belt and sharing its contents with his son. Sweet bread, still warm from Magret’s oven, “the sort of sunrise that we’re seein’ is only possible here, son. In this place. The home of our family, that we made, both of us.” He finished his bread, Melvekior had never seen him look so earnest. “When you’ve built something with your bare hands, with nothing but the strength of yer will and the sweat of yer brow, there is a greater appreciation for that thing than if you are merely handed it. My, our, ancestor, Mellek-Esh, knew this. My father and his father, did not. They squandered what they were given and blamed others. Anyone and everyone but themselves. They were weak.” He laughed humorlessly. “The, what’s the word Aeldryn always uses? Irony, that’s it. The irony. That admitting your failures and taking responsibility for your actions and mistakes, that’s what makes you strong, boy. I’ve heard what ye did and I respect ye for it. That night, those years ago, could have done ye for life and there were times I thought it had. The red-headed wench, she done made a man of ye, and the elf, he made an adult of ye, makes me wonder what I done.”
“You gave me the ability to not take myself too seriously and to doubt myself, father. It doesn’t plague me, but it won’t allow me to be a tyrant.” He wanted to say something to show Mikael that he appreciated him, as he now struggled to show Melvekior the same thing. “What you made me won’t allow the lessons I learned from Ottkatla, and from Aeldryn, to destroy me, make me anything but your son. And remember, father, that they didn’t come here of their own accord. I don’t know how you convinced an Aelvar to teach a child into adulthood, or the hope of a nation to teach me to fight. It’s legend, everyone knows of it. My gratitude cannot be expressed in mere words, but it will be reflected in the actions I take.” He knew he’d said the right thing, and was pleased to realize that he meant every word of it.
“Aye, ye got what I never had. My father was a drunk and a scoundrel and he left me nothing.” He took a deep breath, as if bracing himself for something. Melvekior felt a sick feeling in his stomach.
“Father…”
“Son, I’m not going to last much longer and the last regret I had, I have no longer. Let me sit on my chair and watch the day, no upset and no stress. Ye can sit here with me and we’ll toast the end. I’ve had a long life, son. When ye’ve seen yer son a man, and won him back his legacy and created a new legacy and secured more than ye know, the Halls of Mithras seem not so terrifying.”
Melvekior did cry at this and lay his head in his father’s lap and his father stroked his h
air like he was a bairn afraid of the risen corpses in the dark.
They all had lunch together and the day was warm. Ushatr and Aeldryn acted like Mikael was not at death’s door and that was the way it was. He didn’t drink anything, which was a surprise to his son, for Mikael drank on almost every occasion. After lunch he sat in his chair and sighed happily, or maybe contentedly was the right word.
“I’m seventy years old you know. Not as old as ye, elf, but ye’ve got some catching up to do Bear. Son, ye’ll live longer than that, by Mithras, so be grateful for that, but choose your own way of going. Like I have. I could hang on for months more, but I’ll weaken and I’ll not see myself like that. Today is a good day to die.”
Aeldryn and Ushatr both nodded silently. It made sense to Melvekior but he spoke not, for fear of breaking down.
“I’m not going to tell you everything, son, that’s not my way, nor do I believe it will help you grow. What you want the most, you must take. Ask me whatever you want and then I will tell you something you will be interested to hear, though none will want to hear it.” He laughed, now with grand humor, a joke only he understood.
Melvekior had so many questions for his father, but was so used to not asking them he didn’t know which to ask. He almost fell at the last but blurted out, “Does my mother call me from beyond the grave?” The moment he asked it, he knew it was a mistake. Mikael could not know the answer.
Mikael’s voice broke, “Katerine,” he pronounced it oddly, like Nuvian did, “if any could reach out from beyond the veil of death, it would be her. You were her heart, Melvkior,” Mikael shook his head, “so I don’t know, I just don’t know why.” His head hung low, his mortality and his failure, failure to protect his wife, or so it seemed, hung upon him. Melvekior had never seen him display emotion about his mother, probably kept it in check to spare his feelings.
The Earl of Martelle rubbed his eyes and looked up. He held something in his hand. A carving of a bird, it looked to be made of ivory. No not a carving, but an amulet, a carved bird, its wings outstretched as if reaching for the heavens. It was very intricate and in contrast to the simple leather strip connected to it for wearing about the neck.
“You recognize this, elf, don’t ye?” he laughed again. This time there was the old spite back. “Remember that blackguard, Sunar, he came here with his newest boy concubine? Ye put him on his arse, the little prick.”
“I remember it well, Mikael, for I made its double.” Aeldryn spoke slowly.
“Aye, copied from the original, which I ‘borrowed’ from my old comrade.” Laughing, he turned to Melvekior, “Son, this is the first of my final instructions to you. Do not let Sunar enslave all of Ottkatla’s people. I made a vow to her father, worth nothing once I am dead, but ye love her, save her tribe at least from servitude.”
“I take on your oath, father, as is my right,” he said with passion. Not only would he kill anyone trying to harm ‘Katla, but he would defend her family likewise. In this he referred to the “Blood Oath”. A vow made by the father would pass down to the son in ancient times. Out of fashion now, but even Kings such as Alpre and Sunar would think twice before breaking such bonds. If the King’s Warlord declared a tribe free forever, his son would ensure the continuance of that promise.
“Good, my son,” he placed his hand over Melvekior’s on the chair’s arm. “Take this and keep it, it has some relevance to the death of your mother.” Melvekior turned his hand over and felt his father place the white amulet into his palm, grasping his hand tightly. “It is the key to why she went, son. Sunar and Alpre both wear one as does that vile sorcerer Critus. They are in league somehow and I owe them for what happened to her.” He spasmed suddenly and drew in a sharp breath, he craned his neck as if to speak. Melvekior, leaned down, turning his head. “Protect the Aelvar, son.” Mikael’s voice was soft, but he was sure that’s what he heard. He looked at Aeldryn quickly who plainly had not heard that, no matter how keen his senses.
Mikael arched his back and held on to Melvekior’s hand with an unbreakable grip, the hard cameo digging into his hand. There was for a split second a blinding white flash, from somewhere indeterminate and they all cried out in shock and surprise. He felt a shooting pain in his hand and he jumped backwards with a yelp. He was almost blind from the sharp and sudden light but he could see that Mikael was no longer moving.
His father was dead.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Strange Treachery
“Some lies live on after death.” - Melvekior
“I’ve gathered everyone here for one simple reason.” He looked over the guards and the servants. They all sat in the dining room. The ones that he’d grown up with. Almost family.
Magret, the cook, his cook. Often his chastiser, not once perturbed by his childish threats as a young boy, ever loyal to his father. Wynflid, her niece, quiet and now married to Egalfas the guardsman. Frammel, his senior. Of course Aeldryn was present too. They’d had other servants and guards through the years, but these people were the mainstays in his life. He wished briefly that ‘Katla could have been here but he put her from his mind. Her destiny lay elsewhere.
His father’s funeral had come and gone. Ushatr had carried out a Mithraic ceremony, vowing to bring the Brothers of the Hammer here to build an crypt at Saens Martelle, worthy of his memory. There would also be a state ceremony at some time in the future when King Calra Alpre could spare some time for the man who had kept his kingdom from being overrun by savages and who brokered a peace between the Three Kingdoms and the immense might of the Malannite Empire. Melvekior had sent a messenger to Uth-Magnar, the King’s Seat, with the news but it would be days before any reply would be received and he intended to be far from here when it came.
The aforementioned caretakers of his family’s house were devastated when word of Mikael’s death hit them. There was wailing and tears from Magret and Wynfrid, Frammel and Egalfas commiserated with Melvekior by getting drunk and encouraging him to do the same. He declined at first but after speaking with Aeldryn realized that it was more for their sakes than his, so he acquiesced and nursed a hangover for two days.
“In preparing this speech, I was going to say that you’ve all been like family to me and then I realized that you are family to me. No like about it.My father didn’t believe in giving people an easy life. He didn’t allow me to rest and pushed me harder than anyone but himself. He was a master strategist and diplomat and I believe that the things he taught me were right and true. He didn’t leave a will or any instruction but I’d dearly love you all to stay on in service to my family. That being the four of you.”
He had intended at first to include Aeldryn in his decision but knew that he had nothing that could make the ancient Aelvar’s life richer than it was already. Whatever debt he owed my father was discharged. That was an unspoken reality.
“My father loved this house and the grounds and I’ll not have it changed. Only Prince Sunar can dictate ownership of land, but I, as the Earl of Martelle, can determine ownership of the buildings on my land.”
His audience looked at him blankly. Bless them, they had no idea what was coming. Melvekior paused briefly. Was he being too extravagant? No, he didn’t think so. He was his own man.
“Egalfas, Wynfrid, your children need open spaces to play in. They need horses to ride, dogs to chase. I don’t know where it is you go to when you’re not here, working, but I imagine it doesn’t have those things. You will be masters now of this place. My father’s suite, will now be yours. I’ll ask you to maintain it and guard it as you have faithfully done all these years. Though I will be not here, I will still keep my quarters. Magret, yours will be the guest suite and the taxes from the village and farms will be yours to do with as you see fit.” He was not worried about this, she was notoriously frugal and he wouldn’t be surprised if she saved all the money for him. “Frammel, it is time you retired, should you so desire. Magret will provide you with a pension enough for you to live in comfort. Find
a replacement before you do so.” The old guardsman nodded, unsure of what to say.
“What of you, Lord?” Magret was the only one who spoke, her concern for him touching.
“I will seek my own fortune, but I will return periodically, fear not.”
Wynfrid, dragging two children with her, bowed at his feet and tutted at Egalfas until he did the same. “Lord Martelle, you are most generous. My children will praise your name their whole lives.” She had tears in her eyes and Melvekior helped her up and hugged her, dragging in her husband for an embrace at the same time. He felt quite emotional but didn’t want to display it more than he had to. This was more difficult for him than he would admit.
“Your children, I hope will grow up to be self-sufficient, as you have been. I am not gifting you anything, you will have to work the same as you have before, nothing much will change save my absence. If there are no further questions, I will be retiring for the evening. Magret will you see that there are some trail provisions prepared for me. Four days worth. Feel free to drink all the wine.” He walked out without a further word, followed closely by Aeldryn, the whispers starting immediately.
They walked down a corridor, through the kitchen, eerily quiet as it was with Magret not in attendance and into the extension hallway eventually coming to Aeldryn’s quarter and then into the library. It was a comforting atmosphere, the lighting low and so many books and memories within. They sat in their usual places, Aeldryn in his hard backed chair and he on his stool by the small rectangular desk at which he learned to write.
