11.9

Father had been concerned when Jewel requested an audience with Count Thurzó.

But when she explained her reasoning he had relented as long as he could attend the audience with her. Which of course Jewel would accept!

He was her Father after all.

Which brought her to the tent that was accommodating the Count and his guard.

It was honestly more comfortable than Jewel or her Father’s own tents.

As a count escorted rather than a full prisoner of war he was allowed staff, personal guard and even a weapon.

He marched with a good two hundred footmen and ten knights of Viznove as further escorts around that staff on the march.

And his tent’s placement was decided for him and kept surrounded by the rest of the army camp while they were still traveling outside the lands of Viznove.

But he was given luxury, food as the Generals and Lords took it, comforts and baggage from his apartment.

He even had a small library of a dozen books with him!

And his messenger birds, for sending missives abroad (though all were opened and read before he applied his seal).

Writing such a letter was how Jewel found him.

There was a start when she followed her father into the tent, the flaps tickling her scales in passing. Going just midway down her neck just before she was encroaching on polite spacing for a count.

For all its luxury the tent was not very large.

He had a familiar stiffness in his back and the stink of fear that was normal for those not used to Jewel’s unexpected presence.

But his eyes still held that bright and shining curiosity she remembered from her first meeting. A sign of courage in how his expression was lighting up even though she could taste his fear under the scents of wonder and even genuine joy.

Jewel was a danger but one he seemed to welcome.

A sign of bravery that was at odds with what the Countess had said of the man.

“Count Thurzó of Árva, I am Lady Jewel of Rochford, and I have a request for your aid in a matter of honor and peace for one of your fallen comrades in arms.”

The surprise was muted but still there, he was not expecting her words or perhaps not expecting her eloquence and carefully held timbre of a proper young lady.

“A request? Not a demand, nor a bargaining? Can I refuse?”

He turned to consider Father, who was simply watching. Jewel herself nodded though. Drawing a glance back her way.

As was proper he should have been facing her the entire time. But that was a frustratingly familiar mistake for strangers speaking to her.

“Yes, you may refuse, although I hope you do not. It is no act or task or I should hope even an imposition from you. I merely seek to know a few things.”

The count turned his full attention to her, he looked at her lips, ran his eyes over her own, followed the locks of her mane, passed over her cheeks and snout.

Then his assessment apparently complete fixed his gaze to hers and frowned.

“I may yet refuse, although deeds are written as the movers of this world, it is knowledge that can have the greatest danger and the harshest price.”

Jewel nodded.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“I can be at peace with this, Count Thurzó. Your refusal will hold no consequence for you or our dealings for peace. I am only my Father’s daughter in these matters.”

She nodded to Father, which got a raised brow from Thurzó that was also exhaustingly not unexpected.

“Fine then, Lady Jewel of Rochford, ask your question. Given all your courtesy it would be a poor thing to refuse you even that.”

Jewel nodded then spoke softly. Respectfully in hopes of soothing some of the yet still keening world around them.

She tried to make her words sound like she remembered mother did in a gentle address to the bereaved.

“Dost thou know from whence the Weird of Fortresses Lord Sorcerer Veoul hailed from? If he yet has a family that cares for him? Of what rites would be expected to set his spirit to peace? He fought well and was an honorable opponent and deserves whatever arrangements are due him.”

That seemed to shock the count.

Brow furrowed in thought and tone soft in bewilderment.

“The Lord Sorcerer? Family?”

Jewel nodded again to the question and watched as Thurzó marshaled his thoughts quite visibly before her.

His lips going tight at something he seemed to recollect but all trepidation and fear was going stale around him. The question seemed to have taken all his attention from her.

Finally he closed his eyes and nodded. Then opened them to meet her gaze.

“No family, but he hailed from the provinces of the Free Men south west by sun’s reckoning. He held a Demesne there with a castle and a small manor around it. His lands were small but exempt from all tax by the Realm. Paid instead by a service of one campaign per ten years where he would attend at the High King’s request. Or station himself to reinforce and repair a fort of the Realm’s choosing thrice in that same time.”

Jewel nodded but she had never read of these Free Men or their ways. She didn't even know they existed until today.

“And how do they honor their dead in that demesne? Do you know it?”

Another frown and consideration before he stood from his desk and walked over to the little table holding his books and ran his fingers over the leather spines before tilting one free and then lifting it up and to his desk.

Jewel could hardly help herself and craned her neck a bit to look at the pages but was disappointed to find there was no script she was familiar with.

The letters were right but their ordering was entirely wrong.

Disappointing, something else she would have to study.

“Hmmm, Funeral rights, death rights.... Ah here!”

He muttered something equally unintelligible that seemed to flow and flit about almost like the wind of Euewyn’s voice. But with an actual throat and tongue instead of rustling leaves and branches.

Thurzó glanced up at her for a moment, asked something Jewel could not understand, then smiled with shining eyes and spoke in legible words.

“My book on them is quite old, but not in fact older than the war mage. But by its word the people of the Free Men’s Lands practice a ritual of flowers around the body and then a burial in the ground of their ancestors. Singing of their life and then a pouring of wine upon the ground as a final farewell.”

Jewel nodded at that and bowed her head to the count.

Voice soft and gentle.

“Thank you, if you wish to attend I will be holding such a ceremony for the passed Weird of Fortresses tomorrow morning before we break camp. We have no body but the rest seems simple enough. Our Wizards will be attending as he was known to them and as his lord in the battle it is only right to offer you the same.”

That again seemed to utterly surprise the Count.

But he nodded hesitantly to her.

“Such would be an honor. A-and it is good of you to seek me out to do this.”

Jewel dipped her head again and then withdrew it from the tent, followed by Father.

As she was turning to leave and make what hasty arrangements she could Thurzó’s voice still carried well enough to reach her ears.

“Oh that absolute fool of a witch, does she have any idea what she has stumbled on?”

There was a dry chuckle and then the familiar sound of someone applying blotting sand to vellum to prepare for another session of calligraphy. The faint scratch of an inked quill faded as Jewel walked away.

Soon maybe she could bring some peace to the aching pain of the world all around her.