-They who lurk in the shadows-
[18.13.1623]
Faywyn.
LATE autumn—falling leaves of many colours; deep brown, fire-orange, and wine-red, they meander. Flying. They ramble on this, on that, their only chance to wander. Roving. Descending to the forest litter where they would spend the rest of their existence in the hectic, pallid hues of decay, emanating the ancient scent of a ripened earth. Dying.
The keep was rather quiet this morning. Outside, a thick fog pressed against the horizon like an excluded ghost, shrouding the distant treetops in a cottony blanket of white; a perfect anodyne to the restless spirit. A murky red sunrise flamed the backwood hills of yore in a smoky crimson hue. Fine, pale shards of sunshine sifted through the morning clouds unto the subtle gold parchments littering Lord Aden's favourite table.
The morn found James in jovial spirits, humming under his breath as he ran his fingers through the red locks of a wide-eyed, pubescent girl seated on his leg. "And what of the tax earnings for the third month?" he inquires, while the girl-child fiddling with a charcoal nib, looked upon her drawings with a vague approximation of a critical eye. Behind her, James stared down at what he assumed to be a stick drawing of a noblewoman, his eyes alight with amusement
"The continuation lies on the fifth page, My Lord, at the base," Robert, the steward, replied, directing Levi's attention back to the matter on hand. Clad in a modest grey coat and black hose, the aged steward's tidy, pale hair contrasts sharply with his liege's unruly ebony curls.
"The increase in that period was mere happenstance, my lord," Robert explained. "Surplus harvests prompted His Grace to briefly raise taxes, but subsequent months returned to normal, hence the difference … However, is this wise, My Lord? Reducing this session's tax by such an extent may strain our finances for the upcoming year, particularly given our current expenditure."
"Just do as I've directed. The townsfolk still reel from my previous dealings with the Heras. Some leniency is warranted to avert unrest. I would rather not risk a peasant uprising at a time like this," James dismissed, waving away Robert's concerns, before turning back to the drawings on the table.
"Any progress on the renovation of Mallowston Keep?" he asked.
"The stables are near completion, but other tasks face delays due to labour shortages," Robert replied. "The Citadel, however, may remain unfinished until winter's onset."
"A fair assessment. I anticipated as much, especially after diverting serfs from their usual duties," James conceded. "How about the budget I requested?"
"It's on page seven, My Lord. The cost to mend the Keep's structures is reckoned at five hundred Gold Royals. For the newly formed militia, it is reckoned at thirty Copper Tehs to train a single soldier per month, inclusive of the daily wage as you proposed, and their sustenance for the duration of training. With four hundred enlisted, excluding the fifty for the logistics unit, the winter training expenses are anticipated to exceed twelve hundred Silver Thales.
The steward paused, turning another page in his scrolls.
"Outfitting the militia to your specifications is calculated at twelve hundred and seventy-five Gold Royals. To arm an arbalist with a complete kit costs around two hundred and fifty Silver; this inflates to forty-two hundred and fifty for the three platoons of fifty archers if the plan to equip one-tenth with heavier bows and windlasses holds. As for the infantry, their equipment mirrors the former, with each costing around a hundred Silver, totalling three thousand for six platoons.
"The overall expenditure, covering the town's governance and the upkeep of both Keeps, their defenders, and staff, tallies to sixteen hundred and seventy-five gold Royals. Our coffers have been sorely depleted since Lord Aden drained them prior to the war, and traitors purloined the rest during their mutiny. However, the modest proceeds from the iron mine, taxes, and spoils from seizing Mallowston Keep should yield approximately two thousand and thirty gold Royals after deducting necessary expenses," the steward concluded, organizing the scrolls he was reading from before stowing them away.
James pondered for a moment before addressing the steward, "Very well. Is there anything further I should be apprised of?"
"Yes, my lord," Robert nodded, "The crossbow twine and fletchers for bolt production could be fashioned in town, but I recommend procuring them from one of the mountain tribes at the foot of the Aiga if we aim to meet your timeline. Additionally, Ser Justin's team has recovered the last of the horses that fled from the Heras' stables, accounting for all one hundred and twelve animals. The blacksmiths you requested have relocated, along with most of their equipment; the remainder should arrive within a week."
"Hmm... very well. I task you with tallying the cost of the twine and fletchers needed. Ser Justin and his cohort will be dispatched to secure them from the mountain tribes this week," James instructed.
"...Ah, I almost forgot. Two of the Hera bannermen, Ser Claghem and Ser Liam, have both agreed to cooperate in exchange for leniency, My Lord," Robert added.
"Oh? And what of Earl Gilbert?" James asked with a crooked brow. The little girl on his lap also looked up curiously.
The steward shook his head, prompting James to reply, "Very well. You may leave. I'll check in on him later. Also, please inform the blacksmiths that they should prepare the smithy to receive me. I shall visit to inspect their progress later today."
"Yes, my lord," Robert acknowledged, before taking his leave.
With the steward gone, Levi was finally able to turn his attention to the girl on his lap. "Javi? Pray, what manner of art is this?" he asked, peering at the sketches littered upon the table with a furrowed brow.
Lancelot's only child looked back down at the shallow pile of paper on the table before peeking back at him from behind her bangs, her countenance tinged with bashfulness. Irises, a soft, subtle brown, just like her father's, moistened as she mumbled an apology beneath her breath.
"...I'm sorry," she said, fiddling with the charcoal nib in her grasp. "I wasted so much parchment again. I'll ask Mother to send you another bundle when I get home."
James chuckled softly. Although he had inherited recollections of them from Levi, it was only recently that James had truly encountered Lancelot's kin. Following the altercation with Sean, the over-protective viscount had barred his family from the Keep's confines and had them relocated days before he and his company beset Mallowston with commendable violence. It was only two days past that Lancelot deemed the town safe enough for their return.
Gently tweaking Javi's nose, James replied, amused. "I am not angry about the paper. Pray, just tell me what you were drawing."
"...Really? Yet before, you oft displayed ire at the squandering of parchment, and did compel me to bring more whenever I came over as punishment," Javi murmured, peering up at him with uncertainty.
"Think not on it. Just tell me what you were drawing."
"Are you certain?"
Levi hummed, assenting.
The maiden-child cast her gaze upon her crude renderings before returning them to Levi.
"Swear you shall not mock me."
"Huh? Of course. I swear," Levi replied solemnly. "On my honour."
"Humph!" Javi huffed, averting her gaze. "Go away! I know you seek only to jest at my expense."
"I swore, didn't I?"
"...Very well," Javi relented after a moment of contemplation. "I was trying to capture the visage of Lady Luna," she confessed, fiddling with her thumbs, a colour of excitement gradually returning to her face. "Mother showed me a portrait of her, in youth. She was so beautiful, just like Mother! I hope to be as fair as her and wed a valiant Ser just like Father or the Lord Duke when I mature." The young girl prattled on. "Hence, I strove to replicate her likeness, but, but..."
Looking down at her crude drawings a blush of chagrin stained her face. With a wry grin, Levi sifted through the parchment adorned with charcoal etchings.
"You swore not to laugh!"
"I lied."
"You!" Javi exclaimed, appalled, "You! You faithless varlet!"
James laughed. "That's unbecoming of a lady, I dare say."
"Go away! I am not talking to you," Javi retorted, folding her arms and averting her gaze. With a grin, he retrieved her earlier drawings. Adequate for her tender years, yet marred by hastiness as she strove to improve upon the initial sketches. With each new iteration, the images devolved until all that was left at the end was a mere stick drawing.
"This isn't that bad. This?.. Girl, you are just being lazy!" Levi said in mock outrage, causing Javi to flinch at his feigned accusation. With a shake of his head, he picked up the discarded charcoal implement from the table. Seating himself more comfortably, he commenced a new parchment. Intrigued, Javi peeked at the parchment from the corner of her eyes, pouting still. Her curiosity soon prevailed though as she began to earnestly observe his deft strokes with growing fascination. Clean lines coalesced, delineating the contours of a feminine visage. Subtle curves and delicate features followed, each stroke imbuing vitality.
James was never good at drawing. In fact, he was quite a terrible artist. Nonetheless, seated upon Aden's cherished table, he meticulously rendered lifelike features upon the parchment. Javi, aware of Levi's proficiency, however, registered no surprise.
As the image neared completion, Javi's countenance shifted.
"Levi," she ventured.
"Aye?" James responded, intent upon his task.
"Hmm, last eve, I overheard Father speaking with Mother on matters regarding the town's ailing coffers. What I heard led me to wonder why you refuse to exact further tribute from the populace?" The auburn-haired maiden inquired, cocking her head in puzzlement.
"...Pray, elaborate, Javi."
"Governess Jin oft recites that the folk must remit their dues, as the lord must safeguard them. If you need coin to run the town why not coexact it from the people? I discern no fault in that. Methinks the townsfolk shall not begrudge increased taxation should their lord demand it."
"Working men not begrudging a tax increase? In what world?" James murmured, incredulous. "Not so, Javi," he replied, a faint smile gracing his lips. "Faywyn and Mallowston's stability wanes, particularly the latter. Recent tumult and strife have unsettled the populace. Should I levy heavier tribute, many would suffer this winter and resent me henceforth. Not increasing the taxes on the other hand shall earn me goodwill and foster compliance. 'Tis prudent governance, and the reason I bear the mantle of Lord and not your father."
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
"Truly?" The girl asked doubtfully. "But Father oft times calls you a milksop when talking with mother, and when I asked my governess what that meant she said it is used to describe a person who is indecisive and lacking in courage. Are you certain you are not just scared to ask for it?"
Silence.
James's scribbling came to an abrupt halt.
"Ah? Viscount Lancelot said that?"
"...Aye?" Javi replied with a hint of uncertainty. James turned to her, a warm smile gracing his features.
"Your father tempts fate," he chuckled. "Don't mind him, I am certain. Also, I'll try to remember this the next time I see him. Thank you for informing me, my dear. You are a darling."
"You are welcome!" Javi beamed. Giggling, she seized the completed portrait from the table. "Oh! So pretty!" she exclaimed, twirling around in the light as she held the picture over her head.
Gazing upon the drawing, even James had to concede his predecessor's mother bore a striking countenance. With symmetrical features akin to his own, she was assuredly a belle of her era. Though neither incarnation had encountered her, the woman having succumbed to the throes of childbirth, James had seen numerous preserved portraits within the Keep, alongside countless descriptions, facilitating his faithful recreation.
Watching Javi cavort around, the earl experienced an unfamiliar pang of nostalgia. A memory of youthful revelry and schoolchildren running afoul in a field flashed through his mind. The feeling however did not last as a soft knocking sound at the door roused him from his thoughts.
"My Lord, may I enter?" a soft voice called following the knock.
"Oh no! It's Mother!" Javi panicked, darting back to muffle Levi's mouth with her hand. Alas, the earl had already acquiesced before she could stop him.
"Enter—"
The door swung ajar, admitting a comely woman of middling years. Her features bore a striking resemblance to Javi's, her gaze a silvery hue tinged with grey, and her auburn tresses cascading in waves akin to a sea of ripe wheat swaying in the wind.
"Good afternoon, Lady Junita. How fares the day?" Levi inquired, his words muffled by Javi's palm pressed against his lips.
"Most auspicious, My Lord," the lady replied, offering a curtsy and a gentle smile. An almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of her lips betrayed a hint of exasperation as her gaze swept the curious tableau. Her eyes lingered momentarily upon her daughter, nestled against James's chest, her palm pressed against his lips, before drifting to the dishevelled papers strewn upon the absent duke's cherished table.
Seeing this her smile grew visibly wider, and warmer, as she turned back to face her daughter with crescent, smiling eyes.
"Javi dear, won't you greet your mother?"
"Mo-mother," the girl stuttered, collecting herself with a small gulp. Almost instinctively, she smoothed her gown, adjusted her locks, and stood a trifle straighter, perchance in an attempt to present a more refined appearance.
Levi doubted it was working.
For several moments more, Javi's mother regarded her daughter with a bland gaze before releasing a weary sigh. "Forgive me, My Lord," the lady uttered, gently massaging her temples. "I shall instruct a maidservant to dispatch fresh parchment upon our return."
Observing their interaction with a hint of schadenfreude, James almost refrained from intervening.
"Worry not. Tis nothing," he stated plainly, waving dismissively. "Also, there is no need to chastise Javi overmuch for the disorder. I believe she shall soon outgrow these little antics of hers." The unruly girl turned slightly to stare agape at him, a hint of gratitude in her eyes.
Lady Junita regarded Levi with a blank stare, yet he met her gaze with a smile. After a lingering moment, the woman relented with a resigned sigh. Tenderly retrieving her daughter's hands, she curtsied once more.
"I have come to fetch Javi for her afternoon lessons. We shall now take our leave, My Lord."
"Very well," James nodded.
"Goodbye, Le... I mean Lord Levi," Javi added, stealing a peek at her mother's inscrutable countenance before cheekily sticking out her tongue as they departed.
Now alone, the earl's countenance fell into a sombre hue. Rising from his perch upon the table, he ambled towards the window. There, he peered outside at the townsfolk bustling in preparation for the impending winter. As the distant chirping of birds reached his ears, his gaze turned contemplative.
***
Windy Fir Woodlands.
Princess Iris had long deduced the Duke's enigmatic nature, yet no day had better confirmed this truth than today. Riding his horse ahead, the middle-aged Lord led the way with Iris following closely behind, while her mother, the Queen, trailed a short distance away, silently listening.
"...but he was your uncle?" Iris inquired once more.
"Aye," Aden affirmed, his tone devoid of emotion.
"But—"
"The fool chose to side with the rebellion," the duke interjected, his voice impassive. "All he achieved was offering me the perfect pretext to execute him. Indeed, I displayed his head upon a pike in our family grounds. Alongside his kin, wife, paramours, and loyal attendants, along with their families. Yet my father always espoused, 'show no mercy to traitors', a creed that served him well until the day he began overlooking transgressions in the name of kinship."
"...You are truly as ruthless as they say," the princess muttered, looking away.
"He slew my father, his brother," Aden replied calmly. "'Tis only fair."
Silence.
"...So," Iris eventually ventured, her tone tinged with awe, "is it true you slaughtered a thousand men during that battle?"
Aden laughed. "Nay. Nay, I did not, Your Highness. That was nought but the exaggerated prattle of some drunken tavern folk. Mayhaps half that number, from skirmishes and executions. Perchance even fewer." Aden remarked. "I kept no tally—no sane man would—but I doubt I felled a thousand men."
Iris's awe swelled. The notion of such carnage remained staggering. She had witnessed men fall, yet always believed the tallies to be inflated by commoners. Slaying another is no trivial matter—even for seasoned warriors—thus it is easy to dismiss such claims. Yet, hearing the duke's estimation, though considerably less than the rumours, remained profoundly terrifying.
"...Your sons must then be bold, stalwart men, given your exploits," Iris ventured after a brief pause, her countenance pensive.
"My sons? Sean, mayhap. But Levi? Him? Nay..." the duke scoffed. "No, he is not. Were he to ever venture forth from his studies and embrace life, I would rejoice. He buries himself beneath a mountain of scrolls and tomes, having no interest in martial pursuits, wine, or even the softness of maidens. The lad's future concerns me at times..."
"Truly?" Iris exclaimed, surprised. "The scion of the legendary Dark Gryphon eschews the blade? How unexpected."
For some inexplicable reason, she found herself somewhat disappointed at the revelation.
Aden continued, his demeanour now tinged with melancholy. "The lad cherishes books, much like his mother. 'Tis a pity they never truly met; they would have been the closest of friends." The duke fell silent thereafter, lost in his ruminations. They resumed their journey in silence, the princess wisely opting to withhold her further inquiries.
Only the chirping of birds and the rustling of rodents in the underbrush accompanied them as the sun ascended in the morning sky. Then, abruptly, Aden halted, signalling for them to do the same. Perplexed, Iris could discern no imminent threat, yet the duke had yet to lead them astray, so she complied and waited. After a tense moment, three armed men emerged from the shrubbery, clad in brown cloaks. Oval, white masks adorned their faces, marked only by elegantly carved eyeholes. They bore no insignia, no distinguishing features beyond their masks. Yet their appearance prompted a tenseness in Duke Aden's movements and a wary expression upon his visage. Her mother, pallid-faced, manoeuvred her steed forward in a vaguely protective gesture beside hers. The princess regarded the newcomers, finding their attire vaguely familiar.
"What seek ye from us?" Duke Aden inquired, his hand tightening around his sword's hilt.
"Your Grace," one of the masked men intoned emotionlessly, "We bid thee and their Majesties to accompany us."
"And wherefore should we comply?" the duke pressed, arching a skeptical brow. "Did you presume that we, knowing our identities, would acquiesce to such demands?"
Iris inwardly concurred with that sentiment. The request appeared egregiously out of place, especially toward individuals of their standing. Yet something felt amiss about this encounter. The stranger exuded an unsettling calmness unbefitting of his apparently lowly status.
"Lord Aden," the masked man responded after a stifling silence, "We both know 'twould be to your advantage to heed our request. Pray, let us not complicate matters needlessly."
Another pause ensued. Iris awaited the duke's rejoinder with bated breath. She sensed her mother's anxious fidgeting beside her, appearing greatly perturbed by the confrontation. Not even bandits had unsettled her as much.
"Whom do you serve then?" the duke sighed, finally withdrawing his hand from his sword's hilt in a gesture of acquiescence. Beside her, Irina exhaled a breath of relief.
"You will find out soon enough." The masked man replied.
Iris was confounded by the sudden turn of events; she had beheld the duke dispatch an entire band of brigands with alarming ease. Surely, these men posed no significant threat either? She glanced back toward her mother, noting a glimmer of recognition in the queen's gaze, heavily laced with caution and mistrust. Iris turned her gaze back to the lead masked man, once again scrutinizing his mask.
White, marked only by elliptical eyeholes.
Then, realization dawned.
"Are they...?" Iris began, her disbelief mingled with wariness.
"Aye, Your Highness," the duke confirmed with a resigned expression. "They are..."
"The Nameless."