Duke Tolthurdine of Stedemark paced the floor as he awaited the arrival of a courier that would bring him important tidings. Only relentless movement could divert enough of his impatience so he could think clearly. It was all taking much too long. How many years had passed, now? And progress toward his goal had happened only by fits and starts. Fulfillment of his plans remained out of reach.

  Tolthurdine was a lean man, with hair that was still dark but sparse atop his head. His face was lined in a way that suggested it was care-worn. His olive-colored cheeks were sunken and indicated a man who took little pleasure in food or drink. He was dressed in fine clothing of somber hue that gave no indication of his rank. He held his bony fingers clasped behind his back, one hand rhythmically opening and then clenching again.

  Hearing some noise in the courtyard outside his third-story window, he abruptly changed direction and drew the casement window inward despite the dampness of the thick morning fog. He stuck his head out and scowled; it was just one of the trainers running a new horse in a circle, a length of rope tied to the harness like a long leash. The man stood in the center of the circle holding the end of the rope, urging the horse on while constraining its movement by minute adjustments, uttering imprecations and blandishments, coaxing the horse to adopt an even, steady gait.

  Tolthurdine knew the exercise served a purpose, but he couldn’t help thinking that this was a lot of movement to not actually get anywhere. Then he realized his pacing back in forth in the room was similarly unproductive. He shook his head at himself. Really, at three-score years of age he should be capable of exhibiting better self-control.

  He needed to center himself, and the best way to accomplish this was to go down to the crypt. If the courier arrived someone would inform him.

  Soon after, Tolthurdine was in the family crypt beneath the castle. He spent a lot of time in the crypt brooding and paid it visits as often as a pious worshipper would go to temple. It was accoutered similarly to a temple, too. There were carvings with spiritual themes on the walls and column capitals and all along the edges of the groin vaulting. There were niches for candles and incense, and hollows in the stone in which could be placed offerings for deceased family: flowers for his mother and wife, pipe tobacco for his father, a boar’s tusk and bear’s claw for his brother, who had loved the hunt.

  However, there the similarities ceased, for in the center of the crypt, instead of an altar, there was a sarcophagus. Inside it was his only son. But unlike his family members he received no offering.

  Twenty years. For two very long decades he had been devising his plans, shaping events, gathering materials, and making preparations. All for Eymund, his son and heir. Tolthurdine ran one hand lightly over the smooth edge of the sarcophagus, as he had done hundreds of times before. How much longer?

  Tolthurdine was sunk in reverie but he instantly detected the sound of footsteps descending the stairs into the crypt. Without looking he could tell with reasonable certainty by the steady tread that it would be Vadus, the field commander of his army. Besides, no one else would dare to intrude on the duke when he was frequenting this subterranean chamber unless given explicit permission to do so.

  “Your grace,” Vadus announced in a gravelly voice, “pardon me for the unscheduled visit.” Though he made an effort to use a quieter, more respectful tone than his usual bellow, the words still reverberated uncomfortably off the dank walls of the crypt.

  Vadus was a stocky man, broad of chest, with a well-trimmed dark beard and closely cropped hair and eyes of smoky gray set deep in their sockets. Though in his early fifties, he was still fit and trained regularly with sword and lance.

  “That’s quite all right,” Tolthurdine smoothly assured him. He turned his back on the sarcophagus to face his subordinate. “I know you wouldn’t bother me unless there was need. Speak.”

  “I received word that the Lady Issret crossed the border yesterday and is on her way here. It is likely she will arrive by mid-day.”

  So soon? Tolthurdine was a bit surprised. He had felt sure that familial obligations would keep her at home longer than this. Does this mean that she knows? Already? No, it’s impossible.

  Vadus knew much of the duke’s plans. Some of this was of necessity; powerful men needed to delegate most of their doings. But the soldier was also one of Tolthurdine’s most trusted and proven retainers. Time and again he had demonstrated loyalty to House Stahrcote when a more opportunistic man might have been tempted to turn his coat, become suborned via bribery or just ship out altogether for more lucrative prospects. Certainly, there had been occasions to do so over the years. Yet Vadus remained steadfast. However, there were secrets even he was not privy to.

  “Come then, let us prepare.”

  The morning fog had long dissipated by the time the carriage was sighted approaching the castle. But the day was still nasty; the sky was sullen and a steady rain turned the ground soft. The wheels of the carriage churned the mud of the road, sending a brown spray over some peasants as it passed. When the carriage came clattering across the stone bridge that spanned the moat, the portcullis raised to admit the visitors. A coterie was already assembled in the main courtyard to greet the arrivals. There was the majordomo, the castellan, the seneschal, the butler, the mistress of maidens, the high priest of Solacia who had hurried from his temple in the nearby city of Rosscaster, along with various court officials such as the astrologer, magician, herald, bard and so on.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  As the carriage halted a footman scurried forward and folded down the steps, then unlatched and swung open the door. Then he quickly opened an umbrella and held it aloft as a woman emerged from the carriage. She was in her early thirties, wearing a dress of green satin, richly embroidered about the edges and trimmed with lace. She had curly brown hair done up and held with silk ribbon. She stood and surveyed the courtyard and its occupants with a forthright demeanor and erect posture. After her came a lady-in-waiting, a young woman of perhaps twenty years, rather homely but also richly attired.

  “The Lady Issret, Baroness of Dhozney!” proclaimed the herald, and the courtiers and servants all bowed in unison. With a slight nod she acknowledged the courtesy but then looked away until she spotted Tolthurdine, who had been standing in the shadows of the nearby cloister. When their eyes met he stepped into the courtyard and strode up to her, oblivious to the rain and the fretting man-servant who trailed behind him. He produced a half-smile.

  “Welcome, daughter,” he said, and as he extended his arms she gave him a brief embrace. Then he took her by the arm and walked with her into the antechamber of the main hall. After them trailed the entire retinue, some of the senior members visibly relieved to be out of the rain. Inside, servants assigned to see to the lady’s needs greeted her, some whisking away her luggage and others escorting her to a room reserved for guests of honor, where she and her lady-in-waiting could unpack, get settled and freshen up, leaving the rigors of travel behind.

  Later, father and daughter sat in the front chamber of his private suite, where Tolthurdine often breakfasted by himself or had meals of a more intimate nature with guests where discussions could be discretely conducted. A servitor brought in a golden tray with crystal goblets and a covered dish with an array of pastries – treats that Tolthurdine knew Issret had wolfed down eagerly when she was a child. A samovar of fluted silver dispensed boiling hot water for tea, and the steaming vapors from the goblets hung between them. The air of the room was redolent with spices and incense. Issret sniffed the air in curiosity. She smelled an undercurrent of things she could not identify, and she briefly wondered if her father was attempting to cover up the vestiges of odors from other activities. Was her father experimenting with herbs again? He was always busying himself with esoteric pursuits that never produced anything. She shook her head briefly with a hint of sadness. He had missed too much of life buried in his books and scrolls. Well, she had come to shake him out of that mystical world.

  Tolthurdine took a sip of tea and looked at her blandly. He was composed and placid.

  “And how are the children doing?” he inquired with politeness.

  “Lantalus squires for Tarsen of Umblewold. I mentioned that in the last two letters I sent you.”

  “Ah, yes, that had slipped my mind. I trust he is giving a good account of himself.”

  “He is. Learning was not to his taste; like his father, he disdains the knowledge that is found in books. But becoming versed in the art of war seems to be more to his liking. And Lethana is...Lethana. Fourteen is a difficult age. She veers between extremes of petulance and moroseness.” Issret shook her head in disapproval. “I couldn’t possibly have been that difficult.”

  “Not quite, but we kept a tighter rein on you, which curbed emotive excess. You may recall chafing at your restrictions,” Tolthurdine said drily.

  “But that isn’t what I was asking,” he pressed. “I really meant: how are they dealing with the death of Harald?” And here Tolthurdine’s eyes narrowed. He was never quite sure of the level of affection between his daughter and her husband, though he knew better than to directly inquire about it. But perhaps he could gauge something from the way she discussed her children’s reactions...

  Issret sighed. “Lantalus received the news badly, I was told. That’s to be expected, poor thing. He looked up to Harald and wanted to make him proud, as you would expect of a son. I hope this won’t make him act out and behave rashly. Lethana has become particularly withdrawn and sullen. I know she is grieving in her own way, but we don’t currently have a relationship where she wants to confide in me.”

  “I’m a little surprised you did not bring her along.”

  “I considered it, but there was the High Summer Dance coming up very soon, with all the various fetes afterward, which she did not want to miss. There was the possibility of meeting many potential suitors there, so I did not begrudge her the request to remain behind. Some distraction to lift her spirits I did not deem to be an indulgence.”

  Tolthurdine grunted. It had been a long time since he had been exposed to that world of match-making, with its breathless gossip, the preening and strutting, and all the assorted maneuverings that young people - and their parents - engaged in when trying to find a worthy spouse.

  “I assume she will be suitably chaperoned,” he said, in as neutral a tone as possible. He knew how prickly mothers could be if they detected an insinuation that their parenting might be too permissive.

  “Never fear father, her virtue is in no danger. But I have a matter that has been weighing heavily upon me, and I have need of your counsel - and mayhap more forceful aid.”

  Tolthurdine said nothing but leaned back slightly in his chair. With one hand he gestured for her to proceed.

  Issret became brisk. “To be quite frank, I need your help. Harald’s younger brother Vimond has long coveted the barony. At the moment he has no legitimate claim of course, but you raised no fool; I know a threat when I see it.” Then she lowered the volume of her voice, though she maintained its intensity. “In fact, I half-suspect Vimond may be complicit in Harald’s death.”

  “Really?” asked Tolthurdine, mildly surprised at his daughter’s aspersion. “You don’t accept the report of Harald’s death as true?”

  “Something about it doesn’t ring true to me...I can’t put my finger on it. Yes, there are hunting and boating accidents, and construction accidents, and many other ways one may die before one’s time. But the mishap seems ridiculous – almost embarrassing to the point that I did not make known all the details that were given to me. And now I can’t help but wonder if my children are in danger. If Vimond could remove obstacles to his succession of the title...” Her voice trailed off; she did not feel the need to state the obvious. “I think it would be best if Vimond was taken out. Strike him before he can do any more harm. I hope it’s not too late.” She waited for his response.

  Tolthurdine did not expect his daughter’s unwonted display of ruthlessness. But then, he reflected, a mother will be fiercely protective of her children’s prospects, and even more their safety.

  How would she react if she knew the truth of the matter?

  But she did not know, and never would. Tolthurdine gave her a benevolent smile and patted her hand reassuringly.

  “Of course I shall aid you, daughter. Do you think it best for his killing to be done publicly or privately?”

  Issret sagged in relief.