The first days of her Ducal Grandfather’s absence whip her about like a hurricane. There are procedures in place against invasion and siege, but no amount of preparation can make such a large operation happen smoothly. What feels like every snarl, query, argument, failure, and confusion comes under her auspice; for all that her Lady Grandaunt should be overseeing such matters, it is to her ears that the servants bring their issues.
She has cultivated such behaviour for years, but the sudden flood of it is almost overwhelming. Some even dare play at having entirely failed to notice her as they gossip with Handmaiden Noll! If it weren’t so very useful, Rohese would never tolerate it.
When her Lady Grandaunt wonders, tremulous, at the plight of the Jewellers Rohese knows Cousin Isuelt has sunk great effort into coaxing away from their Guild, she decides to take her tea just a touch early. The view is full pleasant that day: Footman Cei is politely intercepted by Knight-Captain Bors before even reaching their Oathtown.
Instead of orders for mere Guilder artisans to be brought within the siege-wards and given priority in ration distribution over their own leal Oathmen, he now rides for Ogwen with a scroll commissioning the Accouterer’s Guild entire in the production of enough personal wards for every Oath held by Enaid.
Perhaps it will surprise them to receive such an order. But when, where they will expect to see the honeysuckle mark of their usual patron, they instead find the rose seal of the Young Lady Enaid – all will be made clear.
In the meantime, she’ll reap the benefits of duty upheld. Cousin Isuelt has ever clasped her selfish vanity dearest to her heart; there is merit in demonstrating one’s wealth and power, as their Ducal Grandfather well knows with his ever-changing carpets, but sense and taste dictate that one should never ornament beyond the necessary to make a gown’s stitchwards pleasing to the eye.
What is necessary can of course change according to rank, title, age, and the tides of courtly favour. Cousin Isuelt, as Rohese’s only rival, has enjoyed the privilege to dress close enough to frivolity to invite comment; where a scion of a lesser House would shame herself, Cousin Isuelt’s bold daring has won her favour among those of similar tastes. What an Earl’s Young Lady may not dare innovate, she may yet imitate in the footsteps of a Ducal Young Miss, of whom the censorious may only fret and flutter.
Rohese is of the mind that her cousin, full enamoured by the favour of her coterie of fellow graspers, is too careless of the Oaths held by their House. She deludes herself that empty flattery is true regard. She has inverted the nature of nobility, believing in some intrinsic superiority that cannot be stained, when in fact it is dedication and duty from which superiority arises. Already she wields the name of Enaid like a war-maul to cover her oversteps.
Wealth, position, secrets, threats – these are well enough levers in the moment, yet what reach do they have? A single agent each bargain, or at most a handful. Loyalty is the true currency of Kings. A peasant knows nothing of the crystal heart it takes to rule, the calculus of state that cannot be muddied by sentiment; where his heart points, he follows.
The cost of Rohese’s commission would beggar an Earl in precious metals alone. To the Enaid, it is – noticeable, most of all in the time it will demand their Enchanters and Thaumaturges dedicate to working alongside the Guild. But what else of consequence remains for them to do? The Manor is in fine shape, the siege-wards are rising, and she will hardly be diverting those dedicated specialists from their pursuits. Their armouries are stocked to bursting with pallet upon pallet of smokepots, whisper-winds, firejars, Knight rations, and every other kind of bottled alchemy a fighting man might find use in. Knight-Captain Bors assured her, when consulted on the matter, that a good personal ward would offer no less value to a Knight or Armsman than another working laid upon plate or arming doublet.
And though it cannot be measured, the loyalty of an Oathman whose children wear their own personal wards – an expense more commonly limited to scions of the peerage – is a powerful thing indeed. Perhaps even powerful enough to last through ruin and starvation.
A number of lesser Houses are sworn to the Enaid. It is only natural for them to seek an understanding from the Mithral Lion’s House on a matter that has drawn the War King’s direct and personal attention.
So it is that she finds her afternoon tea intruded upon by a number of fellow Ladies and Madams; Young Miss Othyr’s presence is forgivable, with House Othyr’s elder daughter known to be sickly – and, as a result of her cloistering, a frankly frightful bore.
It is perhaps unfair to say intruded. This gathering was arranged in the usual way of such things, if at uncommon speed. When men are busy fighting and ruling, it falls to a House’s women to find their understandings; why spend weeks exchanging stuffy, pompous messages when an afternoon or two at tea can serve as well?
Rohese herself agrees with Lady Hywel’s distaste for the sudden imposition of the event – packaged, of course, in a delicate little compliment on the surprising efficiency with which it had been made known to those present that their company would be most welcome at the appointed time – but Young Lady Enaid can hardly admit to it. After all, a House so dedicated to their land’s defence cannot be aught but efficient in the face of crisis.
Caught in the neat pincer of House Enaid’s unimpeachable Knightly reputation and the crisis that is indeed evident, Lady Hywel subsides, satisfied. Each of them here are allies; so long as neither weakness nor insult are offered, there’s little risk of idle sparring burgeoning into something more serious. And, of course, one should always check the lines remain drawn where one last recalls.
Such exchanges pass a little over six degrees of the sun, by which time the finger sandwiches have been cleared away in favour of confections. With the proper forms observed and relative standings established – House Gwynn’s recent coup in taking up the patronage of Playwright Cuthbert and his Griffin Troupe has won them a measure of regard, while Viscount Linet’s faux pas to Duke Lifay goes very politely unremarked upon – Rohese ventures to introduce the business of the day.
“I have made mention, I recall, of my Ducal Grandfather’s fine taste in carpets.”
The array of reactions to this mild segue – genteel amusement; innocent curiosity; artful confusion – make clear that many present also remember. It’s among her most cherished recollections; House Gaheris, who hold the monopoly on textiles, are most unfond of her Ducal Grandfather’s preference for Cyran pile.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
“Surely not another new acquisition?” Young Miss Othyr is, indeed, yet young for such gatherings as this; in her eagerness to offer the cue, she has offered with it implications she does not intend. The belated blush she fails to control upon realising her poor phrasing makes that very clear. It is, however, a time for unity; Rohese meets two, three, four pairs of eyes, and moves on as if the question had been the very soul of discretion.
Of course, as a filial daughter of her House, she can hardly pass up an opportunity to disparage the Gaheris in passing; her Ducal Grandfather places some importance on their continued understanding that even a Marquis cannot beard a Duke. “I had the fortune to see it when I was called to his solar five days past. His personal seal over the Enaid heraldry – in silver, of course; one cannot expect otherwise – but on a field of that lovely blue he favours, which only the Cyrans know the art of dyeing.”
Due envy and agreement is expressed; at the Peace King’s last great feast, held to celebrate victory over the then-recent Scartide, the Mithral Lion had worn a jerkin in that very blue, with all the rich and subtle variegations unique to Cyran work. He had been much complimented on it, and not only out of propriety: it is a truly beautiful garment, and its utter lack of stitchwards are at once a brazen dare and a potent reminder of his personal fortitude and the favour of the Thrones.
For her part, Rohese has long favoured gowns of a more severe cut than is typical; in itself this is unremarkable, being simply the way of the Enaid. Her recent transition to styles more commonly worn by women older and more secure in their station than she has not gone unnoticed – everyone here is dressed accordingly, to compliment without overshadowing – but her nonreaction to all the various signals of interest have prevented the topic from being raised.
“How rare a thing! Duke Mithral Lion has ever doted on you, Young Rohese, but even so – for a Young Lady to be called to a Duke’s own solar… the matter must have been grave indeed.” Rank has its privileges, but so too does age; it falls on Madam Igren, as the eldest present, to permit or deny a shift to more serious discussion. The Igren have long been leal vassals, and Madam Igren served some years as Rohese’s Governess, which accounts for her familiar address and easy acquiescence.
Even Madam Igren, however, cannot dare inquire into the affairs of her liege-House. Never mind that doing so is precisely why they all have gathered here.
“Well, with a dragon now lairing across the Scar – I suppose you’ll have heard that my Ducal Grandfather rode out to Gareth’s Ascent?”
“One can hardly escape such fearful news; it is most well that the Duke Mithral Lion has taken the van. I daresay there would be panic if it were otherwise!”
“My Ducal Grandfather is ever leal to his Oath, as too are your own patriarchs. The War King has declared that the full measure of Camlan’s strength must be raised, and so they sally out. In the meantime, as ever, it is for we women to support them in managing the affairs of our Houses.”
There is a round of agreeable comments wherein neither the Lady Eldred Enaid nor the Madam Dya Othys are even passingly alluded to.
“This Baron Medraut must be a fine Oathman indeed; I have heard it most reliably that the Scar plays many a jape and jest on the unwary. Surely there can be no greater commendation of his acumen than to waken all of Camlan on his sole word of a dragon!”
“I met him once, when my Lady Great-Grandmother passed on.” It’s graceless, but it is hardly the hour for grace when a dragon casts its shadow; she lets them see her smile at the reactions they fail to entirely cover.
A far-flung Scar-Baron, his demesne in the shadow of the distant Stonespines, able to travel to a heartland estate to offer his respects in person? Such a man is either an idler who puts off all his burdens to his Oathmen, or competent indeed – and with the Duke Mithral Lion and the Thrones themselves roused to his warning, only a fool would assume the former.
Outside of House Enaid, there are many tales of the Scar. Her Ducal Grandfather does not care for tale-tellers; it is precisely because of this that Enaid has come to hold the Oaths of so many Diviners. There is no greater body of knowledge on the Scar than that held within their library. Thus it is that the Enaid are among the few who are consciously aware of the strange tendency of Scarbeasts to flow far more strongly towards the heartland than can be explained by mere terrain.
The cliffs where once the Stonespines’ foothills rolled down to the plains are a strong barrier, but not so strong that the village atop should thrive without a single Knight to defend them. Baron Medraut holds a burh within the Scar itself with nothing but peasant Armsmen and his own Knightly strength, each autumn tithing them men and provisions and more often than not a Squire he could have raised himself.
It is not something spoken of to outsiders, nor even to their own Oathmen. House Enaid are a house of Knights – more of them, and stronger, than any other. They are the War King’s foremost subjects, whose name is sung in every Scar-tale of consequence.
Perhaps Baron Medraut is not so mighty a vassal as an outsider would assume. But he is mighty enough; the strength he can show will be understood as measured control, apportioned from a greater well, in the school of her Ducal Grandfather and the generations of Knights he has raised.
Assuming, of course, that a lone Knight can survive a dragon’s ultimatum. It seems unlikely.
Under the guise of mildly scandalous fascination with the Scar – this is a private gathering of allied Houses, not court; a woman cannot be shamed if they none of them recall aught shameful occurring, and they all understand the reason they have gathered here – Rohese is pressed for details. She relates, with great surety in the martial abilities of the Duke Mithral Lion and the War King, that the Bronze Judge has chosen to lair beneath the Distant Thrones: the great merit of the Stonespines, as the bards tell it, where two mighty peaks rise from a single, towering mountain.
Even unknown and unstoried, a dragon is a dragon; its calling Baron Medraut to parley over the control of his demesne is an uncommon mercy, but one whose outcome cannot be in doubt. The Young Lady Enaid would of course never presume the defeat of the Duke Mithral Lion, but it has ever been his expressed opinion that only a fool does not prepare to suffer a loss, however assured his victory may seem.
Thus, with his blessing – indeed, at his explicit instruction – she has enacted House Enaid’s most stringent measures.
It is in a solemn mood that her guests depart, but these are solemn days. Rohese herself, at least, is buoyed by the knowledge that the Enaid’s Oath-Houses are making all due preparations for a dragon’s ire to fall upon them.
Without the care of her Ducal Grandfather to quell the worst excesses of her Lady Grandaunt – without the threat of the Duke Mithral Lion’s wrath against the disloyal – Cousin Isuet and her fellow graspers grow ever bolder. Some have even tentatively sought to reestablish their contention for control of the estate’s affairs! Rohese has had blessedly little to do there; Cousin Isuet simply cannot tolerate such insult.
It’s short-sighted, but that uncomplicated viciousness is what makes her dangerous. Rohese is her elder: better established, more skilled in the courtly arts, and long known to the Oathmen of the Enaid for her diligent adherence to duty. There has never been profit in sacrificing a leal servant to Cousin Isuet’s revenge for a temporary strike, and the potential consequences of a final vengeance had until recently restrained her from arranging permanent disgrace.
That forbearance elapsed the moment her fool Cousin continued her petty squabbling on the eve of war with a dragon. Better a taint which time can wash clean than a cracked foundation.
It cannot be long, now, until a whisper-wind brings word of the parley’s outcome. House Enaid must stand ready to move as one.