We reached the castle shortly after mid-day. I expected my
breath to catch in my chest at the sight of its towers cresting the horizon,
but when they came into view, I felt no such wonder. It looked smaller than it
had when last I spied it, as I rode away on a shaggy pony to the ship that
would take me north. Returning as a man, atop a powerful hunter, having lived
in the greatest long-halls of Hogunmark, and having seen the palace at
Stormpoint, Castle Fulcairn looked a meager thing. The castle town is
surrounded by a palisade wall built of wood from the fringes of the Aelvinnwode
in the North, and the keep, raised of the very same timbers, sits atop an
ancient, rocky hill at the town’s Northeast edge. It is surrounded by its own
small palisade, strengthened at three points by round, wooden towers.
Yes, my ancestral hall is still constructed primarily of
wood, while most of our peers have lived in stone for centuries. This is a
point of pride rather than shame, for the hardwoods of Wilder’s Gorge are as
sturdy as the stoutest granite, and far easier to work. We construct almost
everything of that wood; our homes, our tables and chairs. Fulcairn bows throw
arrows further than any in Anuire, perhaps all Cerilia. That is a challenge I
would happily lay before any bowyer from any of this world’s far reaches. And
so, Castle Fulcairn is one of wood, and woe be they who take that for a
weakness. Still, it is a small fortress, with only its one wall and its
masterfully wrought, yet stocky keep.
I stopped in the town square to make my return known to the
populace, despite some grumbling from Finn. I mayhap should have listened to
him, for few of my people deigned to stop to hear me. I offered greetings to
those I could, and shared my bright hopes for our future, then climbed back
atop my horse and rode for the keep.
I was filled with apprehension as I rode the winding path up
the hill to the castle gatehouse. In mere moments I would see the father who
had sent me away; not from lack of love, but from duty. Duty to honour a debt
that has been paid every four generations for as long as written memory. The
father who I had not seen for ten long years.
When I crossed through the gatehouse and into the courtyard,
it was then that my breath chose to be stolen. It was not my father who had
descended to greet me, but the most enthrallingly beautiful woman I have ever
laid eyes upon. She appeared haughty, and stood nearly as tall as I, flanked by
a sleek black cairnhound on one side and a red-cheeked lady in waiting on the other. She greeted me coolly, dressed in mourning, and it struck me then that
this be Reynhild, my dead brother’s erstwhile wife. Knowing this, I strode to
her, smiling, and knelt to kiss her hand, offering her greeting in her native
Rjurik. My accent must be thickly salted with that of Hogunmark, for I noted
an uneasy look upon her face. The armsmen had told me during our journey that
she was from the southern shores of Rjurik, which I know breeds a more lilting
dialect. Noting her severe expression, I let out a laugh and wrestled briefly
with her hound, a happy fellow, before rising to my feet and wrapping her in as
warm an embrace as I could muster. It had little effect on her disposition,
however, and loath though I was to force more sorrow upon her, I asked that she
take me to see the corse of my brother. She recommended that we first go to my father, but I insisted.
What a sad state he was in. His body and limbs rested upon a
huge, carven table in the catacombs that wind through the castle hill; the
great cairn from whence comes our name. His eyes were shut, his skin cold and
pale where I remembered warm, sun-browned hands. He lay silent, where I
recalled an infectious, forge-bright laugh. His hair was lank and thin on his
scalp and his frame, once the envy of any warrior, had wilted and emptied like
tree branches in winter. I held a short lament, then asked my frozen sister to
guide me to my father’s side. When she turned away, I hid a trinket, a small
thing with my brother. The image of a hawk flying across the face of the
setting sun. A symbol of our house carved into a small piece of smooth whalebone. I had labored at its creation since leaving Freila’s hall, and had
only managed to finish it in the failing hours of the previous night.
Reynhild led me to my father’s chamber, where he finally
welcomed me. My father too was a changed man, in much the way of my brother,
though he shared not his late son’s illness. He could hardly rise from his seat
at first, but he pushed himself up to embrace me. My father had always been a
busy man when I was a child, and had little time to indulge his second son, but
I knew in that moment that he loved me, perhaps even as well Corrac, and my
heart swelled. He commanded me to cut the hair I had grown to match my Rjurik
peers, the braids and beard that mark a warrior of the clans. Thankfully, he
did not mention the arm-ring given me by Jarl Freila, for I doubt I could bring
myself to doff it even at his command. Oaths are a sacred thing to me, and I
would feel the breaking of one as though it were a deadly wound.
My father led us back out into the courtyard, where he
formally introduced me back to the household, and spoke of the plans for my
brother’s funeral feast two days hence. His voice strengthened with every word,
his limbs regained old, lost iron. The man he was is still there, buried behind
a shroud of loss and age. We each departed upon the close, my father to his
rest, I to see to my appearance and take up my new apartments, and Reynhild, to
the running of the house. She is a formidable woman, though there is a sadness
within her so deep and so heavy that I fear it would shatter my spine were it
mine to bear. It is my utmost wish that I could drain it away. She must have
loved Corrac deeply. I know he loved her well, from the words of my armsmen,
and the loyalty of the hound I’m sure she got from him. I need naught else to
call her family.
I sit now in my rooms in the north tower of the keep, at a
polished wooden desk. I have been bathed and shorn and shaven and fed a supper
of roast venison and tubers, steamed and buttered. The sky is tawny with the
setting sun, tawny is the cloth of my fine new doublet. I am finally home after
ten long years, the hound and the hawks and the stone and the burning sky of Fulcairn
once again adorn my heart.
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