The gift castle, p.25
The Gift Castle,
p.25
Giving the Hrafntonn family back anything Aefric had inherited with the castle would be an insult. However, he had the option to ransom back any possessions he didn’t want.
Part of the reason for all those layers of wards on the grimoires that Larus Hrafntonn had been forced to abandon. The Hrafntonn family wizard had been trying to force Aefric to ransom them back…
“Wait,” Aefric said with a frown. “Karbin thinks those wards are intricate? He actually said that? ‘Intricate’ was the word he chose?”
Karbin was Aefric’s ducal wizard, but also his oldest friend, and one of the finest magic-users he’d ever known.
It was Karbin who’d first recognized Aefric’s talent for magic, back when Aefric was just a street rat in Sartis. Karbin, who’d begun training Aefric as a wizard.
And Karbin who’d been the first to realize that Aefric could go only so far as a wizard, for he was in truth the first dweomerblood…
“Yes,” Beornric said, leaning a little closer across the table and tearing a slice of roast beef in half. “Karbin thinks those wards are intricate. So much so that the Feast of Dereth Sehk might pass before he feels ready to disarm even the first of them.”
Aefric shook his head as he cut free a chunk of honeyed oat bread, and slathered it with butter.
“Did I warn Karbin about Hrafntonn’s skill at illusion?”
“You did, your grace,” Beornric said, wrapping a slice of roast beef around smaller slices of orange, nava, and apple.
Aefric shook his head. “That’s got to be what’s slowing him down, though. Hrafntonn must’ve wrapped illusions in his wards in clever ways. But how did he have time?”
“A question I’m sure Karbin will puzzle out,” Beornric said, one wild eyebrow high. “And I’m equally sure that he does not need his duke to return to Kivash to aid him.”
Aefric chuckled. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t going to abandon my duties and insult my court wizard just to solve a puzzle. No matter how tempting the puzzle.”
A knock at the door was followed by Ser Wardius poking his head in.
Tough, wiry Wardius had the dubious distinction of being the most scarred knight Aefric knew. The man had jagged scars on both cheeks, and had lost the tip of his nose and the small finger of his left hand.
In fact, his hands showed more white scars than tanned skin. Only visible because he had yet to don his gauntlets. Otherwise Wardius, as one of Aefric’s Knights of the Lake, was clad in his full plate armor, with its breastplate etched in an image of Lake Deepwater.
“Your grace,” Wardius said, “the servants are here for your luggage.”
Aefric waved for them to come in.
“We better hurry up and eat,” Beornric said. “It’s a long road to Asarchai.”
“No it isn’t,” Aefric said. “We’ll be there by mid-afternoon.”
“Well, it’s a long road on an empty stomach.”
“Good point,” Aefric said with a laugh. And together, they tucked into their breakfast.
Even properly fed, Aefric found that the road to Asarchai felt longer than it should have. Especially considering that the wide road was covered in smooth, level slats of seamless pale granite. Very easy for walking or riding.
But then, Aefric had a lifetime of calibration to overcome, when it came to travel times.
When Aefric was an adventurer — whether traveling alone or with a small band of companions — he had three speeds: meandering, standard, and urgent.
While meandering, the road from Norrtarr to Asarchai — which was almost as broad as the Kingsroad, and, thanks to the granite, even better maintained — would have taken all day.
He would have lingered, enjoying the smell of ripening wheat on the warm summer air. He’d have taken long breaks everywhere the farmers kept roadside stands selling fresh fruits and vegetables. Even napped, in the shade of a copse of oak and beech trees.
At his standard pace, he would have reached Asarchai before midday. Of course, in those days, he would have left right about dawn.
But even considering the later hour of his departure that morning, at his old standard pace he’d likely have missed a midday arrival by no more than an hour.
The distance was short enough to push a horse safely. At least, the quality of horses he rode in those days. When he rode real horses. As opposed to his magaunt — a spell-summoned, phantasmal steed — which covered ground faster than any horse could, safely.
And when pressing need saw Aefric traveling at an urgent pace, he flew. He could only travel alone that way. He’d never worked out the issues inherent in extending flight to others. But, flying, he could have covered the distance between Norrtarr and Asarchai in perhaps an hour. Certainly not much more.
But Aefric was a duke now, and it seemed a duke generally traveled at a pace too quick to be called meandering, and certainly too slow to be called urgent.
No. It was clearly his new “standard” pace. It was just much slower than what Aefric was used to thinking of as his standard pace.
The difference, he suspected, came down to two things.
Appearances and numbers.
When traveling without a pressing need for speed, Aefric was expected to ride slowly enough that the local common folk could pause in their work to come and wave, as they watched their duke pass.
Not a mandatory, thing, of course. Still, Aefric rarely rode anywhere without a good number of people coming out to cheer him, or yell out wishes for his long life, and the like.
That bright morning, many of the local farm workers even approached the road to throw flowers and call out blessings on Aefric and Baroness Herewyn.
Apparently the locals were happy with the progress being made in recovering after the Godswalk Wars.
The flowers were orange honeysuckle. And they smelled as nice as they looked.
Honeysuckle. Maev’s scent. An association that made Aefric smile wistfully, at the thought of the beautiful princess. Would that she were here now, and not off in Varondam…
Distracting himself from that melancholy line of thought, it occurred to Aefric that riding slowly could be construed as a show of power, in places where he might not be so well-loved. After all, he hardly rode alone.
Which brought him to the numbers factor.
Only his brief time riding with the royal entourage a few aetts back had meant riding with a larger group of people than he rode with that late summer day.
Beornric rode at his right hand, of course, and Aefric’s six other Knights of the Lake, resplendent in their full plate armor, rode guard before, behind, and to both sides.
To Aefric’s immediate left rode her lordship Herewyn Ol’Norette, Baroness of Norra.
The baroness was a beautiful woman. And not just in her smooth skin — which was fashionably pale — her bright green eyes, or her long, shimmering red hair, which today was bound back into braids for the ride.
Hers was one of the oldest noble families in Armyr, and it showed. Perhaps five years older than Aefric — which would make her about a decade into her majority — she had the kind of grace and poise that commanded rooms easily.
Today she wore a silk tunic the color of the midsummer sky, cut to flatter her figure well, over well-worn brown riding leathers.
At her side, a rapier that looked to be more than mere ornament.
To Herewyn’s left rode Sighild Ol’Masarkor, heir to a barony in the county of Fyretti, and a beauty in her own right.
Aefric knew that Sighild was Herewyn’s cousin — and younger by about a decade — but looked more like her younger sister. Same shimmering hair — Sighild’s was longer, and hung past her waist when not bound in braids and ribbons as it was that day — and same bright green eyes.
Though Sighild’s eyes had small flecks of gold that shined when she smiled. And her skin, a slight dusting of freckles.
But then, Aefric had spent more time with Sighild. She was one of the contenders to be his duchess.
Sighild wore a cream-colored silk tunic over her brown riding leathers. And her rapier didn’t look as well-used.
The four of them formed the nucleus of this massive riding party.
More than forty knights, perhaps half of whom owed their fealty directly to Aefric, including Ser Beornric and the Knights of the Lake.
Perhaps a hundred soldiers, two dozen of whom were part of Aefric’s personal guard. The rest were Herewyn’s.
Another reason a duke had to travel so slowly. All those soldiers marched. They didn’t ride. Or at least, they weren’t riding that day. And since perhaps a quarter of them preceded the group’s nucleus, the horses — even walking — couldn’t go faster than the slowest foot soldier.
And then there was the entourage trailing along behind.
No servants, for this trip. Not coming down for work, anyway. Herewyn kept a small keep at Asarchai, which she said held more than enough staff.
But there were still hundreds of people following in Aefric’s wake.
Petty nobles and landed knights, with their own entourages, coming down from the area around Norrtarr for the celebration.
Farmers, traders, merchants and crafters, all with goods to sell, for the feast would also provide one of the five grandest markets Norra would see all year, and the last before the great harvest festival in the coming season.
And others, who could take time away from their work to simply come enjoy the festivities.
Yes, no one traveling with a company as large as this one could do so quickly.
Still, the road was wide, and smooth. So though the pace may have been slow, progress was steady.
And the company was good. As they rode through the late morning and into the early afternoon, Herewyn told stories of various sites they passed. Sighild sang old Norran songs. Aefric told of more recent events down in Kivash — mostly about the efforts involved in subduing his new castle — and Beornric told of gossip from Armyr’s capital, Armityr, that had been passed to him by various relatives.
In all, it was a pleasant ride until Aefric asked the wrong question.
“Are you expecting any other members of the ranking nobility?”
“Alas,” Herewyn said in her smoky contralto. “Baroness Blaewyn won’t be coming over from Felspark this year.” Herewyn shook her head sadly. “A pity. The Feast is one of our few chances to get together without worrying at each other over trade and border issues.”
“Border issues?” Aefric asked. “Anything I should be aware of?”
“Nothing worth bothering your grace,” Herewyn said with a dismissive gesture. “Small details that our families have squabbled over for generations. Not exactly a cause to take up arms.”
That phrasing wasn’t very reassuring, but he decided not to push.
“What keeps her away?” Aefric asked. “Recovery matters?”
“Just so,” Herewyn said. “Though those clerics of the Green Lord you sent did wonders, she still has a great deal to organize before the rains return in earnest.”
“Countess Faenella won’t be able to attend either,” Sighild said. “She’s enmeshed in trade matters.”
Faenella was Fyretti’s countess, and Sighild’s direct liege lord.
“That’s too bad,” Aefric said. “I haven’t seen either of them in too long. And I know Osmaer is too busy along the coast to attend. Any word from Goldenfall or Riverbreak?”
“Goldenfall is busier than Felspark,” Beornric said. “And Count Cyneric’s health is failing, putting that much more burden on his son, Taeric.”
“I understand that Taeric’s sister, Riverbreak’s Baroness Regent, Byrhta Ol’Caran, won’t be attending for the same reason,” Herewyn said. “I believe she’s returning to Goldenfall to see to her father.”
Odd. Byrhta had said nothing of this in her most recent letter to Aefric, which he’d received not three days past. And Byrhta wouldn’t withhold something like that. She’d been looking forward to seeing Aefric as much as he’d been looking forward to seeing her.
She was, after all, one of the leading contenders for Aefric’s hand.
“There will be at least one other titled noble arriving, though,” Herewyn said, sounding not altogether pleased. “Count Ferrin of Motte has sent word that he’ll attend.”
Of course. The only one of Aefric’s titled vassals who’d be traveling in for the feast was also the only one he didn’t want to see.
Count Ferrin. The obnoxious fop who’d conspired against Aefric, threatened him with force, and then had the gall to complain when Aefric punished him for these things.
So much for Aefric’s hope that the feast would be a bit of a vacation…
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About the Author
Stefon Mears has always wanted a castle like this one. Stefon has more than thirty books to his credit, and he never stops writing. He earned his M.F.A. in Creative Writing from N.I.L.A., and his B.A. in Religious Studies (double emphasis in Ritual and Mythology) from U.C. Berkeley. He’s a lifelong gamer and fantasy fan. Stefon lives in Portland, Oregon, with his wife and three cats.
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Also by Stefon Mears
Jumpstart Duchy
Into the Torn Kingdoms
The Dragon’s Gold
The Gift Castle
The Deadly Feast
The King’s Test
Triumph in the Torn Kingdoms
* * *
Cavan Oltblood Series
Half a Wizard
The Ice Dagger
Spells of Undeath
* * *
Spells for Hire
Devil’s Shoestring
Zombie Powder
Spirit Trap
Dragon’s Blood
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The Rise of Magic
Magician’s Choice
Sleight of Mind
Lunar Alchemy
Three Fae Monte
The Sphinx Principle
Double Backed Magic
Mercury Fold (coming soon!)
* * *
The Telepath Trilogy
Surviving Telepathy
Immoral Telepathy
Targeting Telepathy
* * *
Edge of Humanity
Caught Between Monsters
Hunting Monsters
* * *
Power City Tales
Not Quite Bulletproof
No Money in Heroism
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Sects and the City
Prince of a Thousand Worlds
Twisted Timelines
Spell Slingers
Longhairs and Short Tales: A Collection of Cat Stories
Devil’s Night
Portal-Land, Oregon
With a Broken Sword
Twice Against the Dragon
The House on Cedar Street
Stealing from Pirates
Fade to Gold
Sudden Death
On the Edge of Faerie
Confronting Legends (Spells & Swords Vol. 1)
Uncle Stone Teeth and Other Macabre Poems
The Patreon Collection Vols. 1-8 (Vol. 9 coming soon)
The 30-Day Novel and Beyond!
Published by Thousand Faces Publishing, Portland, Oregon
http://1kfaces.com
Copyright © 2022 by Stefon Mears
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Stefon Mears, The Gift Castle
