The Deadly Feast

  Jumpstart Duchy

  Book 4

  Stefon Mears

  The Deadly Feast

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Preview of Book Five: The King’s Test

  Sign Up for Stefon's Newsletter

  About the Author

  Also by Stefon Mears

  Foreword

  The man known as Aefric Brightstaff was not born on Qorunn. He was born on the distant world of Earth, where he went by the name Keifer McShane.

  On Earth, he knew the world of Qorunn only through The Torn Kingdoms, the setting of his favorite roleplaying game. His primary source of joy and solace, following the untimely death of his wife, Andi.

  When a Jumpstart crowdfunding campaign for the next edition of The Torn Kingdoms offered him the chance to become a duke in the world he loved, Keifer pounced on it. Imagined they would send him a patent of nobility. Ask his opinion about the non-player character who’d bear his name and title. Perhaps even allow him to include Andi as his duchess, when the books went to print.

  He couldn’t wait to become a part of the world he loved so well.

  But he mistook it all for make-believe.

  Keifer didn’t expect the great Mage of Marrisford himself, the one and only Kainemorton, to show up on his doorstep.

  Keifer didn’t expect to be transported to Qorunn, where he would start life anew as an orphan boy on the streets of the fabled city of Sartis. That shining beacon on the southern sea.

  Now known as Aefric, he grew into a powerful adventurer. Widely believed to be a wizard, he is in fact the first of the dweomerblood. It is said that magic itself flows through his very veins.

  As Aefric, he mastered the fabled Brightstaff. He fought in the Godswalk Wars, and saved countless lives at the Battle of Deepwater, in the kingdom of Armyr.

  In gratitude, King Colm of Armyr named Aefric Duke of Deepwater. And no sooner had Aefric taken possession of his duchy than he prevented an invasion by Armyr’s southern neighbor, Malimfar.

  Since then, he has worked to unite his vassals. To heal his lands and his peoples from the damage done by the Godswalk Wars. To fight off assassins, slavers and smugglers. To deal with foreign intrigues and the influence of the pirate queen, Nelazzi.

  All while being pressured to marry, and sire an heir who will one day inherit his duchy…

  Keifer McShane. Aefric Brightstaff.

  One man who has lived two lives.

  This is book four of his story…

  1

  Aefric Brightstaff awoke suddenly in a bed that was not his own. Old instincts fed adrenaline through his system, waking him completely as his eyes darted about. Unsure for the moment where he was. And why.

  He lay on a mattress well-stuffed with soft feathers. Sheets that weren’t silk, but close enough to tell him he wasn’t in a cell, or some roadside inn.

  The windows were shuttered closed, but that likely didn’t matter much. The cracks around them were dark. Not yet dawn. Depending on the moon, the shutters could have stood wide open and not offered much more light.

  He could brighten the room with a spell, of course, but light might draw unwanted attention. Besides. His eyes had adjusted well enough to the dark. He could see the chamber about him in shades of gray.

  The walls, floor and ceiling were stone — mostly gray, even when lit, he now recalled. Woven carpets on the floor.

  Carpets of … reds and blues. Was that right? He thought it was. And from the sweet scent, fresh herbs had been scattered underneath those carpets recently.

  An armoire. Oak. Copper wash basin, with a pair of ewers for water, as well as towels, soaps, and a razor.

  Luggage in front of the armoire. Two trunks. Both … his? Yes. His.

  The next sight made him sigh with relief.

  The Brightstaff stood tall beside the bed. Next to an oak night table, but not leaning against it. Comfortably close at hand.

  The Brightstaff, Aefric’s namesake, was more than six feet of white thunderwood — about his own height — with a worn, brown leather wrap where he most often held the staff. Embedded in its top, a yellow diamond about the size of his thumb.

  Reassured by the presence of his favorite tool and weapon — as well as his apparently undisturbed luggage — he continued looking about.

  A good-sized hearth, with no fire blazing because it was still summer. Late summer now, but still summer. The room was neither too hot nor too cold. Something to do with the background buzz of magic all about him.

  A buzz that he recognized.

  It was the magic of clay and stone, balancing the temperature of the room. Pulling heat from within the surface of Qorunn when needed, and shunting excess heat down and away when appropriate.

  Fine, skillful work by a dedicated vohlcairn, a wizard who focused almost entirely on the magic of clay and stone.

  Of course. Late summer. A castle room whose temperature was controlled by a vohlcairn.

  He was in Norrtarr, in the barony of Norra. Safe within the castle of one of his own vassals. Because he was no longer Aefric Brightstaff, wandering adventurer.

  Ever since this past spring, he was now his grace, Ser Aefric Brightstaff, Duke of Deepwater and Baron of Netar. Not to mention a couple of other honorifics that were often included alongside his name.

  Part of the reason he carried so much luggage these days. He had appearances to maintain. So he rarely went anywhere without several changes of clothes, as well as other things he might need.

  He carried more than usual for this trip, because he’d come to Norra for the Feast of Dereth Sehk. And he wasn’t entirely sure what would be expected of him, over the days that followed.

  He eased back down on the mattress. Thinking about the politics and pageantry to come over the next few days. He was awake now, and he might as well—

  A small, feminine sound of protest came from beside him in bed, and a woman rolled over and snuggled in against his chest. She nuzzled his shoulder like a scent-marking cat, trailing long, loose curls in her wake. Chestnut curls, though he knew that more by memory than by sight in the dim light.

  She settled down with a happy sigh.

  Octave. Pretty Octave, with her lavender scent, her wide blue eyes and her soft, tanned skin. A young serving woman here at Norrtarr, in his bed tonight providing him leaba. The pleasures of a bedmate, freely offered by a commoner to a visiting, titled Armyrian noble.

  It had been Octave who’d first introduced the old tradition to Aefric, this past spring, when he’d come through on the way to his new ducal seat at Water’s End.

  She’d come to his rooms that night. Explained the tradition patiently. Answered all his questions. Waited with bated breath to hear whether Aefric would accept her offer or send her away.

  He’d accepted. An eye-opening experience in many ways.

  And now, tonight, Aefric had once more returned to Norrtarr for a single night. He hadn’t been sure what to expect. He’d considered the possibility, of course, that he’d spend that night alone. As he had so often, when he was an adventurer.

  But nights alone were not common among the nobility of Armyr. When traveling, a titled noble might be offered leaba, but whether at home or on the road, any member of the nobility — no matter how great or small, no matter single or married — might go to another noble hoping to share “the noble privilege.”

  By which Armyrians meant a night of pursuing the bliss moment together for no other reason than pleasure.

  It was purely optional. Either party could refuse without insult or loss of face. No gifts were expected or allowed.

  As the concept had been explained to Aefric, the nobles had decided some time back that the political risks posed by jealousy and illicit affairs outweighed the need to keep a desirable lover to oneself.

  Of course, the development of the bitter nysta tea, which prevented conception when drunk by either or both parties before spending a night together, seemed a likely contributor to the practice.

  Either way, where the nobility led, the common folk followed. And in most cities and large towns, the commoners were as likely to go bed hopping as the nobles, these days.

  Noble or common, it seemed that Armyrians loved sex.

  And none more so than the knights. As far as he could tell, Aefric’s Knights of the Lake — the elite of his personal guard — were all sleeping together in various configurations.

  Another small sound came from Octave, followed by whispered words.

  “Your grace is awake. I thought I’d properly exhausted you earlier.”

  “Sorry,” Aefric said, kissing her forehead and stroking the smooth, sleep-warmed skin of her side and flank. “Go back to sleep.”

  Octave raised up on one elbow. Regarded him with wide eyes that he knew were a pretty shade of blue, though in the dim light they looked pale gray.

  She trailed her fingers over Aefric’s collarbone. And for a change, not near one of his scars.

  “When last I had the pleasure of sharing your grace’s bed,” she said softly, “you wore a crystal on a thin gold chain. A gift from a lost love. No longer?”

  That crystal and its chain were among the few objects he’d brought from Earth, the world in which he’d been born Keifer McShane. Where he’d met a woman named Andrea — Andi, as he usually called her. Where they’d fallen in love, and married.


>   Where they’d been happy.

  Until a car accident took her from him. Sent him into a spiral where the only meager pleasures he retained were in basketball and roleplaying games.

  The path that had led him to back Del Baker’s Jumpstart campaign for the sixth edition of The Torn Kingdoms. Where he’d supported at the “Duke of Deepwater” level, which apparently hadn’t been offered to everyone…

  “The crystal and chain sit in my rooms at Water’s End,” Aefric said, voice hushed more by the hour than the topic. “A place of honor. But no longer a constant reminder.”

  Octave said nothing. Just continued to play her fingers back and forth along his collarbone.

  Nevertheless, he felt her question in the air. And decided to answer it.

  “As duke, I’m expected to marry and have children. Wouldn’t be right for my future bride to see around my neck a constant reminder of a past love.”

  Octave nodded, still tracing with her fingers.

  “When last I shared your grace’s bed,” she said softly, “the pain of that loss was yet strong. Is it still?”

  Aefric reached up and stroked her cheek. “My true healing began that night.”

  Octave smiled warmly.

  “And she who gave me that crystal,” he said, “would be grateful to you.”

  “I was truly the first, after her death?”

  That was true and not true. The part of him that had grown up in Qorunn as Aefric had known and loved — briefly — many women. But the part of him that was Keifer hadn’t seriously considered touching another woman after Andi died.

  The true part felt stronger, though.

  Aefric nodded. “And a good deal of time had passed.”

  Octave’s eyes moistened. She clutched Aefric for a moment, her face against his chest, while he held her, uncertain what was bothering her.

  She looked up, and the tears trailing down her cheeks puzzled him further.

  “That your grace went so long … untouched.” She shook her head. “Did no other women even try?”

  With Aefric, yes. Certainly. With Keifer, though…

  “In truth?” He shrugged. “If they did, I didn’t notice.”

  “Oh, your grace—”

  “Keep in mind,” Aefric said. “For most of this time, I wasn’t a duke. I was just an itinerant adventurer. And I wasn’t in Armyr, where seeking the bliss moment is a common pastime.”

  “Your grace,” Octave said firmly. “I could be a tavern wench in Sartis, but if I saw you come in one night, I’d do my best to make sure you left with me.”

  Aefric chuckled.

  “Your grace thinks I jest,” she said, half-smiling herself now, as she wiped away her tears. “I do not. In fact, I suspect that many others tried, and your grace didn’t notice because they didn’t have a good tradition like leaba to make their intentions clear.”

  “Perhaps,” Aefric said.

  “Speaking of leaba, your grace,” she said with a different kind of smile altogether. “As you are awake, and so is your bedmate, all that remains is more pleasure.”

  She trailed her hand down his chest then to stroke someplace lower, and Aefric pulled her into a kiss.

  And then they were busy for quite some time, before they returned to sleep.

  Aefric was awakened sometime later by Octave’s gentle hand. Though as his eyes opened, he was disappointed to see that she was already out of bed and dressed in her pale blue frock. That could only mean that their time together was coming to its end.

  Morning light streamed in through the open windows, which said further that she’d been awake longer than she needed to be, just to slip into her dress.

  All the same, Aefric was tempted to pull her back into bed. Not necessarily even to seek the bliss moment again — though she did make the prospect tempting — but just because he wasn’t ready to start his day yet.

  She must’ve seen the temptation in his eyes. She laughed joyously.

  “Ah, would that I could slip back out of my dress and between those sheets with your grace again. But I have my duties to see to. And her lordship expects your grace to join her for the ride south to Asarchai, for the feast.”

  Aefric sighed.

  “If it helps, your grace, Ser Beornric awaits you in the sitting room. With breakfast.”

  “Hardly a winning comparison,” Aefric said, looking her over with a smile. “But I suppose it’s time.”

  “Your grace should come just to visit sometime,” Octave said. “Spend a few days here with no great agenda, and free to pursue … other pastimes.”

  Aefric chuckled. “Temptress.”

  “Thank you, your grace,” she said, looking pleased.

  Aefric stretched and got out of bed, and was gratified that the sight of his naked form distracted Octave from whatever she intended to say next.

  He stretched again, arms wide, legs tensed, and torso bowed with the move. Putting on a little show for her.

  Octave stopped moving about and watched with frank approval.

  “Perhaps your grace could visit again soon?” she asked, her voice a little huskier.

  “I suspect I’ll want to stop here for the night on my way back to Water’s End.”

  “And I’ll beg her lordship for the chance to offer your grace leaba when you do.” She shook herself. “Come now, your grace. I cannot see to my other duties until you’re washed and dressed.”

  “I can see to those things myself,” Aefric said. “Wouldn’t want you to get into trouble.”

  “Oh no, your grace,” Octave said, smiling. “Can’t have that. Not when these are the duties I’m most looking forward to today.”

  She took her time washing and shaving him at the copper basin, and afterward seemed to be groping him with the towels as much as drying him off.

  But then she dressed Aefric in his brown riding leathers, with a silk tunic of navy blue, which had the Deepwater sigil — a lake, with a sword emerging from it hilt-first — embroidered in gold thread above his heart.

  And she went out of her way to make sure she was satisfied with the way the fabric lay against his skin.

  His boots for the day had hard soles, for traveling, but otherwise were of soft, buttery brown calfskin that cradled his feet and calves. His belt matched, and bore his belt pouch along with the sheaths of the wand Garram and his noble’s dagger.

  All nobles of Armyr wore a dagger at all times, no matter how formal the setting or complicated the outfit. A tradition that went back hundreds of years. Perhaps further.

  This excellent dagger had been found for him in his new castle in Kivash. It had an ebony handle, carved with the likeness of a raven. A straight, steel blade edged in silver, about as long as Aefric’s hand.

  Octave then combed out Aefric’s long, sandy blonde hair. Stroked his shoulders, back, and chest a few more times under the pretense of “dusting.”

  Finally, she stepped in front of him, looked him up and down critically, and said, “There. A proper noble. Or did your grace want to wear one of the hats I found in his trunk?”

  Aefric chuckled. Hats had been out of fashion for a number of years in Armyr. But his valets at Water’s End, especially Dajen, had been encouraging Aefric to wear hats, and make them fashionable again.

  Both his valets seemed convinced that Aefric could somehow set the trend.

  Of course, Aefric would be riding all day in the sun anyway…

  “Perhaps a hat would help with the sun.”

  “Oh,” Octave said, sounding more excited about the prospect than Aefric felt. “Then this one, your grace.”

  She went into the trunk and pulled out a bycocket hat. Its body was Deepwater gray, but its turned-back brim — which formed a point in front — was navy blue.

  The hat also featured a colorful tailfeather from a pyltenius bird: a hint of yellow near the quill, through an orange that darkened into a blazing red and finally a deep blue at the tips.

  She positioned the hat on Aefric’s head. She put one hand to her chin and tilted her head one way and then the other, assessing the hat’s position. She adjusted it slightly, then smiled.