The golden-haired young man bolted across the yard behind the newly-erected wooden fortifications-- so fresh one could still smell the sweet sap of the yew planks-- with the exuberance of a boy, rather than the decorum of the adulthood that the occasion was intended to bestow upon him. Banners flapped above the new palisade, and festoons of spring blossoms scattered petals in the breeze, speckling a grey-clad figure that dismounted with some difficulty from a tall roan mare. She wore a mail hauberk, old but finely-made and well-cared for, and sported a flanged mace at her hip; both belied the cane she leaned upon to walk, and the fingers, gnarled with arthritis, that gripped it.
"Of course I'm here, silly boy. You think I would miss your wedding? I may be three-quarters in the grave at this point, but I'd crawl all the way out to be here-- Haelyn, look at you, Conor. I swear you're twice as tall as the last time I saw you. And look at those shoulders! You haven't been neglecting your drills, I see!"
"Never!" The young man grinned. "I have to impress my new bride, after all. She's the daughter of Hjalmur Yngvi, after all, and they say she can throw a spear through an oaken door six inches thick."
Aye, Conor, Sigrid mused, sadly even though she beamed outwardly. 'Tis lucky indeed that the Fulcairns have always remained close with the Yngvi. For what Anuirean noble would wed their son or daughter to one of the children of doomed, disgraced House Fulcairn? Even if those children are the finest, and brightest, and best children to walk Cerilia. She reached up-- she was a tall woman, but age had stooped her, and Conor would be a giant of a man once he'd reached his full height-- and cupped his cheek tenderly. "You are a fine boy, Conor. You do your House proud, always. The Yngvi lass is lucky to have you, and you will have a good life together."
And indeed, in his clear blue eyes, his handsome, guileless face, Sigrid saw hope, saw a light, breaking through the darkness that Melehan had dragged the House into all those years ago. A wooden castle now stood on the island in the river, the blackened and blasted ruin fading into memory. The shame, the ostracism, the plunge into shunned obscurity-- what did any of that matter, anyway? They still had each other. And the Wilders had what they always had-- their woods full of game, the rivers full of fish, and that intractable, indomitable Wilder spirit...
"Come on, Aunt Sigrid, let's get to the new great hall! I can't wait to show you around!"
Aye, titles and estates come and go. But the Wilders will always be Wilders. And the Fulcairns will always be Fulcairns.
*******
"To the bride and groom! To my dear son, and our new daughter-in-law! Long life, good health and many heirs! And may the friendship between our Houses last as long as Eirik's green earth and Nesirie's blue sea!"
Sigrid gripped her tankard, precariously in her swollen and aching fingers, hoisted it at Caedwyn's words-- Baroness Caedwyn, now-- and quaffed gladly. Gods, it made her heart ache worse than her knuckles to see her oldest and dearest friend like this. Caedwyn was smiling broadly, her voice cheerful, but her face was gaunt, her eyes ringed with dark circles, her proud bearing slumped.
Also, I don't trust that young whippersnapper who guards her these days. He looks lax, slow. If only the damned arthritis hadn't forced me into retirement.
A hand fell on her shoulder. "Any room on this bench, Mistress Haeming? I'm inexcusably late, but better than never, as they say..." The man reached up to muffled his racking cough with a doeskin-gloved hand.
"Vigruf!" Sigrid laughed, delightedly. "It's been forever! Sit down, get some ale into you." She waved at a servant. "Miss, a tankard of ale for Master Morgenstane, if you wouldn't mind! Vig! How have you been? Where's Leisha and your brood?"
Vigruf's dour demeanor softened a touch. "Leisha's to deliver our fourth child any day now; she wasn't fit to travel. I bid the children remain behind to help; it has been a difficult pregnancy. I would never have left her side, but--" He motioned at the Fulcairns, drinking and dining merrily at the head table. Conor seemed positively smitten with his new bride, a small girl with a riotous blaze of orange curls, who'd apparently seen fit to wear a well-worn hand-axe strapped over her wedding garb. The twins were radiant in their matching green dresses. Caedwyn sat, a smile on her face but a shadow lingering in her eyes, and Lorran hovered protectively at her side.
"Listen, Vig..." Sigrid lowered her voice. "I know you and I haven't always... seen eye to eye. I just want you to know that I have always held the deepest respect for you. You have continued to stand with them staunchly even though--" she trailed off, as neither of them needed to hear the words spoken-- "and you have been the wisest and most honourable ally a House could have."
Vigruf raised an eyebrow. Aye, nothing gets past you, Vig. "Sig... what's going on? Why the speech?"
"I'm an old woman now, Vig. I've always said I wish to be useful as long as I'm alive, and alive only as long as I'm useful. I'm of no use to the Fulcairns anymore... but there's a service I'd still like to provide for them, while I can." Sigrid met his gaze, and held it a moment, and he understood, and he nodded, once.
"Vig, if you ever see... her... again... tell her her family loves her. Tell her I love her, that we will always love her. Tell her we think of her every day, and the pain of being apart from her is only eased by knowing she is safe. Tell her I, all of us, will do anything to keep her safe."
He nodded, again, silent. The serving girl returned, a tankard brimming with white foam in her extended hand.
"Let's drink, shall we? To the Fulcairns."
"To the Fulcairns."
**********************
As night fell over the Arnienbae, an accursed rain began to fall, first slowly and steadily, then fiercely, soaking through Vordhuine's embroidered velvet cloak in moments, chilling his skin. It fits my mood, at least. Foul weather for a foul mood. A foul day, all in all. His magical research had been going so well; he'd been so close to the breakthrough that would cement his position as the greatest wizard of his age, and finally show those uptight pricks at the College. But no, rebellion had broken out in the east, and Magnus had diverted his funding to the military.
I'll roast every rebel like a boar on a spit, personally, if I can get back to my work as soon as pos--
A jerk, a crunch, the bone-chilling sound of his horse shrieking in pain, and suddenly he was flying over the saddle pommel, over his own horse's head, to land, with another crunch, and a breathtaking stab of pain, flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him. He struggled to rise, and almost instantly fell back down, the pain blinding. Something's broken. How the hell did this happen? Healing, unfortunately, was not his specialty, and it might be hours before any traveler passed down this back road through the woods.
And then he saw the old woman shuffling down the path, leaning on an iron-shod cane.
"You there. Come, assist me," he barked.
...And then he saw the flanged mace, tied with rope into a gnarled fist that could no longer grip it properly, and with a sick shock realized he knew her face, knew it from all those years ago.
"You're... you're Caedwyn Fulcairn's dog."
"Aye. And you should have never come near this old bitch's pups, you son of a whore!"
The mace arced, a streak of silver, even as Vordhuine gestured and frantically yelped the words of a spell.
********************
The Imperial guard came looking for Vordhuine when he did not appear at the Emperor's court for nearly a week. On one of the back roads approaching his estate, they found a strange sight indeed-- the Imperial court wizard's corpse, skull crushed, and next to him, the burned corpse of an elderly woman with a mace tied to her hand. Horrifiedly, they gathered the court wizard's body, and unceremoniously dumped the old woman in the woods.
At least one of the guardsmen noticed that the old woman, though her face was burned nearly beyond recognition, appeared to have died smiling.
**********************************
In the Great House Records and Genealogies codex, retrieved from the Fulcairn Keep Catacombs by Cathal, Cuinn and Mara, was the following entry:
Sigrid Morgenstane
Fourth Child of Vigruf and Leisha Morgenstane
Chief Advisor to Baron Conor Fulcairn the Second
No comments:
Post a Comment