The Count’s men escorted him from the apothecary’s store with sudden haste. An uncertain air descended over them, one so thick that every movement, every decision was slowed by it. Only the Axemere knight possessed any surety, which bordered on relief.

“Did you see who?” Alden whispered.

“No,” Amice replied.

“How?”

“I wasn’t paying attention.”

“You weren’t paying attention?”

Arriving at the Count’s manor before she could answer, they were greeted by a host of doctors in robes of red and white.

“Lord Alden?” the head doctor asked. “Count Stowgardyn bid we tend to you.”

Alden waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve been cured.”

The doctors were not swayed. “He insisted, my lord. It is not becoming of a lord to leave his guests unattended to, he said.”

“I’m fine,” Alden replied. The doctors exchanged worried looks with one another, souring the mood of the Count’s knights even further. Amice moved closer to him and, with the mountainous strength contained within her small figure, pinched the skin of his elbow painfully. He relented. “Fine. Do as you will.”

The doctors were quick with their work. More skilled than the combat medics Alden had served with during the war, he was almost impressed. Almost. His own skills still exceeded them, by far, and though it had been a long year since their last meeting Alden still remembered the skills of Doctor Elmswood with a fond warmth.

The Count’s knights led him through a series of dimly lit hallways and up several flights of stairs, more than he’d climbed to reach the ballroom. Eventually they led him down another hallway, this one brightly lit by magic lanterns, and stopped at a door.

Sir Godwine, the Knight Captain, was the one to knock. “We’ve returned, Lord Stowgardyn.”

“Come inside,” came the muffled cry of the Count.

The Count was found sitting alone in a chair on the far side of the room. Staring into the fire, he seemed barely to recognize that anyone had entered the room at all.

“My lord,” Godwine said, kneeling beside the Count and whispering something in his ear. The Count nodded.

“You may return to your lords,” the Count said, referring to the party of knights that had joined them. They left, some with a profound look of relief, others with fearful uncertainty. “You are well, my lord?”

“I am,” Alden replied. It was not the truth in any capacity. His Health had yet to fully recover, his suit was in tatters, and within him was an anger so intense it was a surprise that he was still lucid.

“Well, my boy, I am not,” the Count said. “Forgive the familiarity.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“Oh, but there is. Much and more. I’ve been a poor host, very poor.”

“The ball…” Alden began.

“It's over with, my boy. Ever since you crashed into one of my tables, blood dripping down your eyes and nose like someone cursed. Is that a blood stain on your chest, or tomato soup?” Alden looked down at the red splotch on his chest. Soup, by the smell. “It matters not. The party was over then. Before that, even. The very moment your lips touched that damned glass of wine it was all over, we just didn’t know it yet. Aethelstan, the Axemere boy, is dead, if you haven’t already heard.”

“I had,” Alden replied.

“Lord Axemere was beside himself, as a father should be. I’ve never seen so many tears or so many threats come from a man. He said he’d burn half the lakelands to ash if that’s what it took to bring about justice. Empty words, I think, though I don’t intend to test it. I’ve offered Lord Axemere every aid I could think of, except coin, of course. And I have every intention of offering the same to you, my lord.”

“It is much appreciated, my lord,” Alden said. He bowed, but his attention had long waned from the Count. Instead, he had fixated himself on the few knights that remained in the room. A powerful lot, by any measure. In terms of raw power about half were stronger than him. Even with Amice’s power combined the group of knights would make easy work of them, assuming Alden was slow to conjure his magic. And, after a poisoning, he was feeling particularly sluggish. That the knights remained immobile and stoic, like heroic statues, eased him some. That, and the intense feeling of trust that emanated from within his chest.

He could somewhat safely assume the Count was innocent, at the least.

“You said you did not offer financial aid, my lord?” Amice asked.

The Count turned to her, surprised by her interruption. “That’s right, err…”

“Dame Amice, my lord,” a knight said.

“Ah, yes, Dame Amice. Well, you have the right of it, I did not offer something so crude as money. Equating the life of a son to some arbitrary monetary value… such an insult could never be unmade.”

“Apologies, my lord,” Amice said, bowing, “I should have been more clear. I am, at the moment, concerned with Lord Alden’s situation. Though he was cured of the poison, the cure came at a steep cost. A financial one.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The Count smiled. “I would be more than happy to aid you in that matter, madam. How much debt has been incurred?”

Amice looked away. The matter of debt, though superior to death, was a poison all its own.

“More than 500,000 impera,” Alden answered.

The Count’s smile faded instantly. “Are you certain?”

“We are, my lord. Your knights can attest to it.”

“It was the Thorn of Aspaneous that cured him, my lord,” a knight interjected.

Count Stowgardyn wobbled to his feet. Grasping an iron poker, he prodded at his fireplace, the angry flames within sputtering out bright orange specks that cooled to gray ash before touching the floor. Having fixed the charred logs within, which had been perfectly fine in the first place, he turned back to Alden.

“I cannot afford that much,” he admitted. “My coffers are as filled as they’re like to ever be, but even then I could afford less than half that much. Less than a quarter, even. I have the money, of course, but my wealth is not so liquid that I could just up and pay this enormous debt. If I sold some land I might be able to afford this enormous debt. Mines, maybe, or good forests ready for lumbering. Farmland would never cut it even if I had twice what I have now.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to pay all of it even if you could,” Alden said. “I ask only for your aid in establishing Lyonpool Barony’s economy.”

The Count’s interest was piqued. “What do you suggest?” he asked, taking a seat.

An idea had been rolling around in his mind ever since Aelfwynn greeted him. An idea which had remained only an idea, having never been given breath, even to Amice. It lacked too much to be spoken aloud, a fact that remained even now. But, given the circumstances, Alden was willing to chance it.

“In the south,” he began, watching for the Count’s interest, “in the place the Chanat call Tejin’s Strait, there is a particular grass I’ve taken a botanical interest in.”

“A…a grass, you say?” the Count asked, unconvinced.

“A blue grass, as blue as the sky itself. A Chanat tribe lives in a place known as the Sky Plains, and I’ve been told that the animals reared there a rather unique robustness. I’d like a sample of this grass, but possess neither the men to retrieve it nor the time to do it myself.”

“That’s all? Just some grass?”

“That, and one other thing. Horses.”

Count Stowgardyn nodded his head at the word, having connected some piece to the puzzle in his mind. “Tell me the breed and the number required, my lord, and they’re yours.”

“I am in need of a variety of horses. Work horses, mostly, for tending to my fields, but destriers will be needed if I am to field soldiers.”

“Are you in need of soldiers?” the Count asked.

“No, my lord, but I was a soldier myself. I’ve grown accustomed to their presence, and having more would put my mind at ease. The horses would only serve to bolster whatever force I’m able to cobble together. Of course, while I would be content with workhorses and destriers, I must admit that lately I’ve taken an interest in horse racing.”

Clapping his hands, the Count stood. He went to a bookcase on the far side of the room and ran a finger over their spines. Finding the desired book, he rummaged through its pages as he walked to Alden, then presented the books contents.

On the faintly yellow pages were a list of horse breeds, ordered by the number of victories in past races, accompanied by minor illustrations of the breeds which, to Alden’s undiscerning eye, appeared all alike.

“Racing,” the Count said, “is a fine investment. A long, arduous one, I’m afraid. Horses do not breed as quickly as dogs. But with enough time there are few investments that are greater for the equivalent amount of work. Land is always king, as far as investments are concerned, but only if you have the men to work it and the men to defend it. But horses, ah, they need only the land readily accessible to you, the proper breeding, and the proper training.

“Sadly, my boy, as far as offerings go I possess only a few. Seven, to be exact, altogether worth some hundred thousand impera or so. Had you demanded a sum of impera directly I might have sold one or two, but better, I think, to just give some to you.”

“Which breeds are they?” Alden asked, feigning interest. His plan did not overly concern itself with the specific breeds.

Steadily, the Count pointed the breeds out, listing off their specific strengths and, more interestingly, their weaknesses. “The storocc is the greatest of the lot, in my opinion. Most betting men share my opinion, of course, but some still stick to their favorite breeds to their own woe once the races, and the betting, begins. Not the fastest, but storocc have a sturdy build made for endurance. Perfect for the longer races. Anything less than 4 furlongs, however, and I’d recommend the cwicwrot.”

Alden moved his eyes over the page in pretend fascination. “You have storocc available?” he asked.

“Of the seven, I have three storocc. Another three are cwicwrot, and the last is merehors. I am willing to offer one of each breed, or two of my cwicwrots with my merehors. The others I must keep for myself, you understand, for future breeding.”

Making a show of deep thought, wherein nothing in particular crossed his mind, Alden lifted his eyes from the page. “One of each, then,” he said.

Closing the book, the Count placed it back on the shelf and, as he settled himself in his chair once more, seemed to remember something of import.

“In the midst of things I hadn’t thought to ask. The Thorn… well, as it happens, there were only two Thorns in Hyllgardyn. I say only, but at their price it’s truthfully a miracle. Regardless, I must admit I have concerns about the owner.”

“Why’s that?” Alden asked.

A sudden stern anger struck the Count. “An unsavory businessman operates out of Hyllgardyn. One I can’t quite rid myself of, as much as I’d care to. So, Lord Alden, I ask again: who did you procure this cure from?”

“Baron Axemere,” Alden replied.

Easing back into his chair, the angry lines of Count Stowgardyn’s face disappeared. “That is quite the relief. As well as an odd coincidence. I am certain…I am hopeful that Lord Axemere will be willing to forgive a partial amount of your debt to him, considering the circumstances.”

Alden bowed. “I’ll discuss matters with him as soon as is reasonable.”

“The matter’s settled, then. At least for the moment. The last matter, then, is your continued presence in Hyllgardyn. More specifically, will the two of you be staying? I can assure you, no further harm will come to either of you should you stay.”

Alden gave a reassuring smile. “We accept your offer, my lord. And if it is no bother, I am weary from tonight’s events and would like to rest.”

“Certainly,” the Count replied.