By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought)

by Crandall, John

  The Stormweathers ventured inside, the brothers catching up with their parents as they entered the villa. “Now, there is a beautiful woman,” Selric said to Fiona, motioning to his mother who walked silently ahead of them on Andric’s arm. She turned to talk to Lady Briganston as she and Andric neared the stairs and stopped to chat.

  “Yes, she certainly is,” Fiona replied with admiration nearly as loyal as Selric’s. Andric turned to say something to his sons then paused as he saw Selric and Fiona staring ahead. Both youths smiled innocently when caught by his glance. Andric looked down at his wife and smiled proudly, his head high in the air as he pulled Violet nearer to him.

  Helmric was the first up the stairs and into the glowing hearth room, ignoring the valets who waited at the door to check invitations. A young man, this his first party, almost stopped the elderly lord to ask him for his paper, but another servant who had tended many of these affairs, quickly grabbed his shoulder. “You fool, that’s Helmric Stormweather, one of the most respected lords in the city,” he said sternly. More willing to follow protocol, Andric stopped and handed his paper over, as did his sons. “Welcome to the party and do enjoy yourselves, Family Stormweather,” the youngster said, bowing lowly, more respectfully. Still bent, his eye was caught as Violet swayed by. Selric smacked the young man’s head as he passed and the valet bolted back to attention, his eyes forward, brow worried.

  When the rest of the family had made it inside, Helmric was already over in the corner, drink in hand, with the other older, most respected gents, talking on their subjects and not wishing to be disturbed by the younger, less enlightened generations.

  The Stormweathers passed through the large open double-doors, which were fully twenty feet high and fifteen feet wide each. In the tremendous hearth was a roaring fire built to throw off the autumn chill which blew in the open doors. Torches fluttered along the walls as the breeze whipped through the large room. They passed another set double-doors nearly as big as the first, iron-bound and, similar to the entire mansion, quite defensive looking. Like the Stormweathers, the Briganstons were a family whose heritage lay in skill-at-arms: they had a long history of generals and war heroes in their past. Presently, though the family was still represented in the city military, they had no immensely important politicians or officers in service to the kingdom.

  Andric led Violet to the array of small, dainty refreshment tables which looked out of place in the sparse room decorated mainly with battle flags and memorabilia, including a twenty foot painting of the Briganston’s most famous forbearer, Otto Briganston, hero of the Applegate War over one-hundred and twenty years earlier. The Stormweather boys, women in tow, stood in the doorway surveying the room, allowing the guests to view them and their ladies. Selric scanned the party for Angelique, but did not see her immediately, so he and Mendric mingled, Selric introducing Fiona while constantly spying for Mistress Von Yelson.

  Selric met Lady von Yelson, alone as was usual and he introduced her to Fiona. The noblewoman was polite but cool to the young lady she believed to be her daughter’s rival. There was no Lord von Yelson. He had drowned when his ship went down on a trading voyage eight years earlier. Ships were the bane of many a noble citizen, who often found a watery death. In Andrelia’s history several shipwrights had been executed when craft they had built sank, resulting in the death of an influential person. Nobles and those with money often traveled south aboard vessels rather than face chilling winters or bone-jarring wagon rides on the often-rutted and occasionally bandit-ridden roads.

  The Stormweathers had been enjoying themselves for about an hour when the brothers came back together to sit at a table with their guests. Soon, their father and mother sat at an adjacent table and this is when Selric saw Angelique enter through one of the doors which led to other parts of the villa: Angelique on the arm of Justin Briganston. Selric popped up as if his seat were on fire.

  “Excuse me,” he said briskly, walking over and heading them off at the table which held the large bowl of punch made from wine and southern fruits. Angelique brightly smiled when she saw Selric approach, then took his hands and kissed him, not on the cheek as she always had, but instead on the lips. Selric smiled.

  “Hello Selric Stormweather,” Justin said snottily.

  “Hi,” Selric replied. “Excuse us.” He led Angelique to a nearby table. “Hello, Darling,” he said to her when they were alone.

  “Hello, Selric. How are you?”

  “Fine. You look ravishing,” he said; and she did.

  “Thank you.” Angelique continued to smile; enchanted by him. Still. But unable to control himself Selric blurted out the question that burned inside him.

  “Why are you here with him?” he asked. A puzzled look passed Angelique’s lovely face and the look of admiration left her.

  “You told me I needed someone who was at home at these functions. Justin is; and he’s sweet,” she added. “I truly did not mean to hurt you by it. I thought your feud with him was over.”

  “When someone slanders you, a feud cannot end,” Selric said. “I’m disappointed in you.”

  “Well, I’m sorry,” Angelique said, looking upset with Selric. “I cannot live for you. Remember, you turned me away. I like Justin. I don’t know how much yet, but I would like to find out.” She touched Selric’s face just as Justin Briganston moved between them.

  “I thought you were away on some grand adventure with your commoner friends,” he said.

  “Piss off, dandy,” Selric snapped. Justin stepped back in utter shock at Selric’s unexpected barbarity.

  “If I were a dandy, as you say, I would not be with a woman, let alone having Angelique as mine,” he said in a slightly effeminate way.

  “I’m not yours,” Angelique said quietly; politely. “I’m just your guest.”

  “Of course,” Justin said in a patronizing way, kissing her cheek in an arrogant show. “But don’t be snotty, dear, or you’ll end up all alone, like your mother.” Selric pushed Justin gently back away from Angelique.

  “Why are you being like this?” she asked Justin. “Because you want to anger Selric? Or did you simply invite me for some competition? Am I just some prize? I thought you were sweet.”

  “Apologize!” Selric said fiercely, both men ignoring Angelique’s protests. Justin stepped back again, intimidated, fear in his soft brown eyes even though he stood slightly taller than Selric and outweighed him as well.

  “You’re so touchy, Selric. I didn’t do anything,” Justin insisted.

  “I said apologize, you ass!” Selric said, stepping forward.

  “This is my house, Stormweather,” he said loudly, getting nervous and drawing himself to his full impressive stature. As Selric continued forward, Justin panicked and swung half-heartedly at him. Selric deflected the ill-aimed blow and brought his boot up against the side of Justin’s head, knocking him to the ground.

  Selric turned; the whole room was quiet and all eyes were on him. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized what he had done, his mind blank during his jealous anger. He knew his father and grandfather would be furious, to say the least, and even his mother and Mendric would be upset with his lack of respect. Then his gaze met, what he believed to be, the only friendly eyes in the room: Fiona’s. She sat smiling sweetly and understandingly, if just a tiny bit pleased in a wicked way. Selric instinctively made his way there, completely forgetting about Angelique, but he never reached Fiona. He was quickly surrounded by a group of burly men: Justin’s two brothers, father, brother-in-law, and two cousins. Before any words were spoken, the group was broken by the other three Stormweather men, walking side by side, tall and fierce, like kings emerging out of the mists of time.

  The Briganston line was not what it once had been; the men were not particularly skilled nor brave, and relied on their reputation and money alone, unlike the Stormweathers, who were respected not only for their illustrious past, but for their present skill-at-arms. Throughout the world, if one were to ask
a room full of fighting men who the Stormweathers were, at least half would know, and a handful, at least, would have studied at one of their academies.

  Though the younger Briganstons started the encounter, the Stormweathers quickly finished it in a flurry of flashing fists. They returned to their ladies and escorted them from the hall: the only proper thing to do. Once outside, Selric thought his life forfeit when his grandfather glared at him. “Not another two years at sea?” he worried. Just then, Selric remembered Angelique and he looked back: while the Briganstons fixed their appearances, trying to regain lost respect at having been beaten so soundly, Angelique stood alone, smiling and waving farewell to him. Selric shook his head in disbelief and smiled. “Quite a girl,” he thought. When he turned to apologize to his family, his grandfather spoke without hesitation.

  “Well, wasn’t that something! I remember it was twenty and some years ago...my father was still alive and I still had strength in these arms,” Helmric said with a rare smile, but rubbing his aging limbs. “Your father and his wife, your mother, Mendric...” Mendric perked up while they waited for the carriages. He loved to hear stories of his real mother, which were nowadays very rare: she was just a distant memory to them all now. Grandfather continued, “...we were all over at the Velling’s place when old man Velling remarked how your mother’s dress was too short for such an occasion; it was his daughter’s wedding, you see.”

  “Well,” Helmric continued, his tone lively, his hands moving all about and his face aglow, “your mother, a hellion she was, full of spirit, feigned spilling her drink and it went right down inside his ceremonial breastplate.” The two older Stormweathers laughed uproariously, as Selric looked in disbelief at them. He could not believe he had escaped sure death at their hands.

  “After jumping around and swearing every foul oath you ever heard, he said one about your mother and, drunk as we all were...the hour was late you see...a full-fledged brawl ensued. Oh, what a night.” Helmric and Andric laughed, recalling memories held dear to their hearts. Selric caught his father staring absently at his eldest, a tear in his eye and a slight smile on his face, clearly seeing his departed first wife in his son.

  “Why don’t you women head back home and let us gents go out on the town,” Grandfather said and the women did as requested, climbing up into one of the waiting coaches, while the four men walked out the gate and down into the city.

  “I am so sorry,” Selric whispered to Fiona. “You will be my guest at the very next affair, I promise,” he said, kissing her on the lips before being dragged away by Mendric.

  Grandfather led them first to the Bastion, a quiet, upper-class establishment. Selric was a little awed by his own family; they were proud, regal gentlemen of strong personality. For once, he could relate to the pomposity they often showed at the pride in their lineage. It had been years since so many Stormweather men strolled through the streets of the city, not in carriages or in the halls of lords and kings. This night they walked amongst their kinsmen, looking to mingle and drink beside them. Many who knew them stood aside, watching as they passed with an air of greatness seldom seen in that day. This air could not be explained; simply seen and felt. Selric thought of himself as a child tagging along. Then, without conscious reason, he thought of Will.

  “Lords Stormweather,” the barman said, sounding slightly thrilled. “What’s your pleasure?” The four men moved to the bar and stood, the elders in the middle, Selric by his grandfather, Mendric by his father. Helmric was looking around curiously, his eyes prowling: an eager kind of suspicion as he looked for some excitement in the quiet room.

  “Whiskey for us all,” the patriarch said.

  “Yes, m’lord,” the barman said and hurriedly fetched it. He spoke as he poured them four generous glasses, noting the elder man’s fiery look: “M’lord, this isn’t going to be a Stormweather night as has happened in the past? Your look worries me slightly,” he said looking up at the old man. A grin slowly came to Helmric’s face then he smiled and began to laugh, as did the other three Stormweathers.

  “Though it has started that way, good man, you needn’t worry,” he said.

  “Well,” the barkeep sighed, “I am relieved.”

  “Good,” Grandfather said. “It is not your tavern, so the losses won’t come from your pocket.” The Stormweathers laughed again and even the barkeep could not help but chuckle.

  “M’lord doesn’t remember me, but my name is Nedlock Fosrin.”

  “Ned!” Helmric said, looking closer at the middle-aged tender. Then his eyes opened in recognition. “Why, it is you. Of course I remember. How are you son? I see you’re not working for the Vorunns anymore, but then, no, I recall the reason.” He vigorously shook Ned’s hand.

  “No, m’lord. I left shortly after you.”

  “What could you do?” Grandfather said comically, his hands held out in sympathy.

  “What happened?” Mendric asked, smiling in anticipation.

  “Oh, forgive my manners, or lack thereof, more appropriately. Young Ned, this is my son, I’m sure you remember, and that’s his oldest son, Mendric, and the whelp here, is our youngest, Selric.” He took a large gulp and began sputtering violently.

  Andric steadied his father. “Father, are you all right?” he asked, while grandfather laughed heartily.

  “Good whiskey,” Helmric said, gently pushing his son away. “I’m fine, boy. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Well, during the brawl, which went from one end of the room to the other, you see, smashing nearly everything to splinters, everyone seemed to be fighting everyone. Nobody really cared, it was all just a good time and nobody ever got seriously hurt. Well, hardly ever. It seems that Ned here felled one of the Vorunns, who had forgotten his own valet and took a swing at him.” Grandfather laughed.

  “The talk didn’t die down for weeks that Sigurd Vorunn had been knocked unconscious by his own servant in self-defense.” All five of the men laughed, as did several other patrons who had drifted near so that they could listen. Grandfather looked about and smiled at being the center of attention. Then a serious look came to his face. “Wait!” he called, raising his hand. “Drinks all around, Ned. We need a toast.” Ned had the serving girls top off the drinks of the twenty-some patrons while Helmric Stormweather waited patiently and silently. “To Sigurd Vorunn,” he then said, “who died defending his king in The Erulian War. He was a good man,” Helmric said, his glass raised. The room grew silent, honored the toast and drank. The quiet was broken by a long satisfied sigh from the eldest Stormweather. “This whiskey is better on every drink. What a development in beverage. Another!” he called.

  “Well, m’lord, if I may ask, why aren’t you at the Briganstons? You seem dressed for such an occasion.” Ned filled the Stormweather glasses again and Helmric motioned for him to deal for the guests as well. All four men laughed peremptorily and Helmric broke into the story. Selric beamed brightly with pride for his grandfather as he told how Selric exhibited the fierceness, honor, and bravery that marked a Stormweather, defending the honor of Lady Von Yelson.

  “Hopefully,” Ned said, “your fighting is finished for the evening. I like this job and I need to keep it.” Helmric gently insisted, if it could be called that from someone with so commanding a personality, that Ned drink with him. The barman lifted his glass respectfully, smiled with a gleam of respect in his eye for the old gentleman and drank his whiskey down.

  Grandfather turned to the crowd and told stories that were humorous or valiant, or somewhere between for over an hour, totally enthralling the patrons. Not one customer left, and as new people arrived, they gathered around to delight in the regal old man’s yarns. It could be seen where Selric got his flair for dramatic storytelling. But Helmric wanted to see more of the city, and have more of the city see his heirs, so he called for a last round on the Stormweathers, toasted his young namesakes and nonchalantly waved for Andric to pay his healthy tab: Helmric had not carried coinage in a decade. Calling farewell, Helmric Stormweather pas
sed through the crowd and was patted on the back or merely touched much like a conquering hero who has returned to his adoring countrymen.

  Dirk was out walking. Fiona and Selric were at the party, Melissa was working, and, of course, Cinder was out with a gentleman. Dirk had actually grown a little tired of his friends after spending the last month exclusively with them, so he walked, alone, with no particular destination in mind. His feet carried him to a small house on Crescent Street and he looked up, actually surprised to find out where he had ended up. Dirk sighed, shrugged to himself and mounted the steps, knocking gently on the door. A fairly attractive girl, somewhere near age twenty, answered the door and her jaw fell open at the sight of him.

  “Wow!” she gasped unintentionally to herself. “Come in, sir,” she then said aloud. “I’m Beatrice. You’ve never been here before have you? I mean, you don’t want any particular girl?” she asked hopefully.

  “Well, sort of,” Dirk replied. “I brought Tallow here one night.”

  “That figures,” she said in disappointment. “It’s that red hair, isn’t it?” she asked, running her fingers through her thin blonde strands. “She always finds handsome ones.” Beatrice turned away and yelled, “Tallow, customer,” then turned back to Dirk. He nearly blurted that he was not indeed a customer then realized that it was not really important. “Come on over here,” she said businesslike. “Sit. She’ll be right down,” Beatrice pointed to a small couch. No longer seeming upset, she sat next to him, facing him at an angle. She started touching him softly. Dirk was annoyed, but said nothing.