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. . . Both alike in dignity—but feuds were within each of the two rather than between them, grist for a pair of romantic plotlines. These mini-portraits portray some of the significant members of those households. Characters used with permission of their creators.
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By Firelight
A vignette by Dave Bryant from A Redoubt of Stars
This work is copyright 1999 and is not in the public domain.
Grey Thaler, Earl of Cera and Count of Maerora, stared moodily into the fire leaping in the heavy stone fireplace. Only its popping and crackling broke the silence of the winter evening; the courtyard outside was quiet this long after dark, and a light snowfall muffled what little sound emanated from other parts of the large imperial-style villa. It was as if the world he now called home held its breath.
Release came with the creak of the interior door and the whoosh of air as it opened. Bootsteps thumped quietly, and a familiar gravelly voice filled the half-timbered room that had already seen so much drama. “Ah, Yer Lordship. Ye called fer me?”
The tall, lean wolf looked up, firelight playing over his grizzled face, exaggerating the thoughtful frown. He did not reply until the door was safely shut again. “Uncle. Yes.” He nodded to the old soldier who had been a friend and mentor all his adult life and longer, and waved a casual hand to another of the heavy chairs that populated his office, cozy-seeming despite its size owing to the low, heavily joisted ceiling and simple decor—a reflection of the man who worked there.
The blocky, still-powerful form of Captain Rory Galenson dropped into the offered seat. “Ah, Grey, ye look like a cup o’ mead wouldn’t go amiss, eh?” With a small flourish, he produced a bottle and poured full two thickly lacquered wooden chalices, then proferred one to his lord, who took it absently and sipped it almost by reflex. The smooth sweetness of his favorite berry mead soothed a tongue and throat he had not even realized were dry. He sighed and closed his eyes briefly. To business, then.
“You heard . . . Quinn’s story?” the question was quiet and toneless.
“That I did.” The captain cleared his throat, sounding as if it were the gravel he was clearing, and proceeded to lay out, coolly and succinctly, the information he had gleaned from the newly returned vixen, followed by his own deductions and theories. Grey did not interrupt, an occasional nod or flick of an ear the only indication of his attentiveness. Both men sipped sparingly at their cups from the long-ingrained habit of well-trained soldiers.
When at last the older man finished, the nobleman shook his head. “You’re right, Uncle. ’Twill be years at best before we’ve the strength to face such folk.” He scrubbed at his face with his free hand. “Dragons to replace the men we lost to that fool’s errand, yes, even if that be naught but a hand-broom to sweep a palace, as I fear.”
“Aye. E’en His Majesty’s Aerial Guard ’ud be a piss on a burnin’ house, fro’ th’sound o’it.” The captain’s tone was grim but determined.
“My very thought.” The troubled earl shrugged wearily and sighed. “But I’ve little choice in the matter. I must needs request that His Majesty send as many squadrons as he can spare, for so long as he can spare them. I shall pen the missive tonight, to go through the gate at next Tempus-tide. This will cost me . . . as if the coin of my honor were not already squandered away.”
“Ye do what ye must for the good folk who came t’carve out their homes under yer banner, man.” The captain’s rejoinder was staunch, brooking no contradiction. “An’ so far, ye’ve done a fine job o’it.”
“Thank you, Uncle. Would that others thought as you do.” Suddenly, the dark-palmed hand not holding the now mostly empty cup waved dismissively. “Ah, let.”
“The Lady Ardith does, fer one.” The observation was off-hand. “She’s quite a woman. Came t’me at Daelin’s door th’other night, bold’s brass.” Mild tolerant amusement colored his tone.
A touch of interest brought Grey’s head up. “Did she now?”
“Aye, an’ what could I do? She’s mistress o’ th’house, free t’go where she wills, eh?” The older man winked, his leathery, seamed face crinkling in a slight smile.
The gambit worked, for the weary lord’s expression eased a little. “So she is. Well, well. God’s blessing on her and Daelin, then. May they find happiness in this benighted world.” He cocked his head, his brows rising meaningfully. “And what of you and that saucy skunk girl, mm?”
“Ah, little Geva. Aye, noo, I’d not mind seein’er agin, I’ll tell ye true. D’ye remember that dish o’ fowl we had far ’cross the desert? Th’one wi’the sauce, honey an’ . . .”
Grey nodded. “The sweet and sour, yes. What of it?”
“Aye, well, thet’s what she ’minds me of. Pleasant and sweet, but lively ’n’ sharp enow to keep a man int’rested. An’ she’s seen hard times, but she’s not hard ’cause o’them.” The older man shrugged. “’S been too long, an’ I’m thinkin’, if she be willin’, now might be a good time ’n’ place to settle, eh?”
“God in heaven! So your head’s finally been turned, has it?” A faint teasing underscored the wolf’s reedy tenor.
“A bit, mebbe,” the older man confessed. Then he shot his friend a keen glance. “But not so much’s yers, I’ll wager.” At the other’s sudden glance away, his tone softened. “Quinn sed y’swore yer heart t’her.”
Grey’s pale sea-colored eyes closed tightly and he nodded. “She turned me away, for good and sound reasons.”
“N’doubt. Tch! Ye ’n’ yer fiery little vixens!”
“She is nothing like—”
“Nay, lad, they’re peas in th’pod.” The gravelly baritone rode over Grey’s heated denial. “She’s short ’n’ skinny ’n’ insolent ’n’ has a nasty temper . . . an’ most’f all, she’s come up in th’world thanks t’ye.”
The whipcord earl catapulted to his feet and began to pace. A short, bitter, humorless laugh escaped him. “What my wife desired, I gave her not, and she divorced me for it. What my love desired not, I gave her, and she spurns me for its sake.” He shook his head, then whirled about and pinned Rory with a glare. “There is one difference: for all her thievery, all her insolence, Sabriel is more honest a woman.”
The shaggy brows shot upward. “Aye, thet she is, I’ll warrant. When she don’ lie t’folk, or t’her own heart.”
The stare continued for another few beats before the standing man dropped his to the floor. “What else is she to do?”
A snort greeted the question. “Get’t through her stubborn vixen skull thet she’d nae lose what she’s gained, if she married ye. There’re more warrior ladies th’n women in th’ranks.”
“And few enough of either,” the earl murmured thoughtfully. He shook his head and continued aloud, “But until she does . . .”
“’Til she does, Grey, ye’ll jes’ haveta bear up, eh?” The old soldier rose stiffly and clapped the taller man on the shoulder. “’Twill happen soon enow. But, look ye, ’tis late and time t’be abed. I’m for’t, ’less ye have somethin’ further?”
“No. No, Uncle, that’s all for the nonce. Good night to you, and God guard your rest.” Grey’s tone was once more absent, and he barely noticed as his captain clapped his shoulder again before brushing by on the way out. Once more alone, he stood for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Then he strode to his desk and sat, drawing out quill and parchment.
It took long for a letter of such brevity, as Grey weighed each word carefully before setting it down, once even beginning anew. At last, though, he was satisfied that his request for draconic reinforcements would neither inspire panic nor cast doubt on his own ability, and he rolled it deftly, slipped it into a lacquered message tube, and clapped the tube’s other half shut on it. Candle wax sealed the seam, and his own sigil pressed flat a blob of it.
He stared at it a moment before opening the clamshell tag affixed by a stout leather strap to the tube’s pull-ring and scribing on the thin, hard wax therein the royal arms, describing even to the illiterate the intended recipient. He snapped it shut again, tied to the ring a black-and-silver ribbon, and dropped it into a basket by the interior door. On the morrow, it would be readied to go through the gate with other messages, the next time Tempus appeared on the other side.
It was simpler to douse the fire himself rather than rouse a servant, so it was a few minutes more before the weary, worried earl finally closed the door behind him and set off down the hall toward his own bedchamber and a troubled, restless sleep. Ω
Please do not reproduce this vignette without the permission of its participants.
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