“Your holiness,” Drakanes went to one knee, clinging to the fabric of her new dark robe. “I am not fit, nor worthy of such an office.” She lied, for inside she felt completely worthy of such reward. But the guise of humility was the better choice; that she knew. Beneath that mask of virtue, Drakanes smiled an honest smile – dreaming of wealth and estates, of servants and titles. A high councillor’s lavish life was good indeed.
The Matriarch gave her a spoonful of the sugar honey. Drakanes didn’t rush to chew; instead, enjoying the sweetness before swallowing the melted remains.
“On the morrow, your name shall be entered in the lists for the vote. When the time comes, sister Anthea will win her seat, and you will win yours. Both of you will represent the interests of the Westlands. And the high councillors of our order will elect a new Matriarch from amongst themselves. My sweet and brave sister – champion of the gods’ justice – if you have any desire of me, you need only ask and it shall be provided.” The Matriarch beckoned her to rise.
“For starters, your holiness,” Drakanes said with a shy smile, “I’d like a cup of water.” The spoonful of sweet sugar honey had left her mouth dry.
Chapter XVI: Kalafar
The roosters signalled a new day’s dawn.
“Blasted creatures...” Kalafar opened his eyes and yawned. He still felt tired and sore from the road. Only last night he had returned to his keep. The emperor’s celebrations for the betrothal of his son had been quite tedious; and he was glad to be home again. Kalafar was left with a sour impression of the capital, impressions of arrogance and pride. The zjialaan name of Sodomis, the red skin... that marked him still a foreigner and a heathen in the eyes of the southern lords.
To hell with them.
Kalafar had left two-thirds of his household knights and guards with Juni. She had wanted to stop by at Redgarden, to say farewell to her family and take some womanly things with her. Gowns, dresses, slippers, those sort of things – for the life that awaited her in the north, in Weiyenor. Kalafar wanted to be spared of such a dull reunion, and rode forth to make haste for his own home. The Streamlands permitted easy and swift passage by way of boat. Kalafar had pushed his mounts hard, as well as his own thighs, in efforts to make haste for his castle, after he had reached Rivermark by water.
He felt rooted inside the Northlands. Here things were better, even if the weather was harsh, even if the realm lacked the wealth of the south. Now that he had chosen the woman with whom he’d spend all of his life’s years, Kalafar was free to reflect on things with an easier mind. And Juni’s party was due to arrive in about two weeks time.
Though they were betrothed, Kalafar had yet to decide upon a wedding day. Truth be told, he wasn’t much interested in the ritual. Everything seemed to be working for him. His brother was married and off in the Snow Plains to do what he liked best, playing the soldier. And now, Weiyenor’s court was left very quiet. Kalafar thought of the dowry paid by Quintus More. For that much gold I’d be tempted to kill mine own mother. The thought had a morbid sweetness to it. Lady Olivia still regarded him with contempt for engaging lord Mayflower about his daughter. The woman even had his lord uncle and steward scold him for the proposition.
“Marriage to a southern house, and a minor one at that, is against our realm’s interest – your family’s interest.” Alghernon Sodomis had said to him in a rough voice. “Marriage brings with it wealth and swords. The Mayflowers have neither; not to mention that they make for very distant allies. How many leagues between the south and the north, between Weiyenor and Redgarden? And your lady mother has told me that you intend to take this southern girl without any sort of a dowry, however small… Your thinking with your cock, boy; not with your head.”
But whatever scolding words his uncle and mother had said to him, Kalafar paid them no mind. The matters of the heart and those of politics rarely mixed. But a soul plagued by regret could not stand to face adversity. And to his mind, Juni Mayflower was well worth the price.
The lord of Weiyenor awoke from his sleep. The blue sky bore no clouds in sight. From his chamber window, Kalafar saw a group of men entering through the castle gates. Several of them were mounted, while the others were afoot. He frowned when he recognized their business. Bloody petitioners… Let’s hope, at least, the riders won’t be as boring as this poor lot of smallfolk is bound to be. He slipped into a clean shirt, put on his breeches, his crimson doublet, and his lordly chain of amber and gold.
Afterwards, he went off into the main hall. The three-day fasting had begun. No wine or meat was allowed during the period. Kalafar couldn’t care less about the calendar’s holy days. He ate what he liked, when he liked. What business do the gods have with what mortals drink and eat? Do animals or insects have days in which they are forbidden to roam and feed? Huh, I think not. But now he wasn’t felling particularly wistful about his food, nor did he have an appetite. Therefore, his meal was light and simple – a stump of brown bread with a glass of goat’s milk, sweetened with honey.
After he was done, the ram ordered his servants to remove the table, so that he might properly receive the petitioners. Kalafar Sodomis sat on his high chair. It was a simple thing made out of pine wood, all painted black. Its arms were curbed and each of them coiled into gold discs. Seven wooden spikes, brass plated, came out of the top rail. Above the high chair, a tapestry of fine cloth hung from the ceiling. It was of a crimson colour, bearing the sigil of house Sodomis, the ram with fiery hooves sewed in golden thread, and the words, ‘Ours is the path and sword.’
Kalafar signalled for the first petitioning party to enter. Of course, the nobles took precedence over the commoners. Also, none of the petitioners were allowed to carry any sort of weapons in the great hall. This was not a custom shared by other northern courts, however. It was a peculiarity in Weiyenor’s halls; dating back ten decades ago, when a fanatic of the Faith had made an attempt on the senior lord’s life.
“A foreign noble will never be a true native,” his father, Jorghel, had said to him and his brother when they were just boys. “Despite being given the same status as any other noble house of the Empire, we are still considered guests, or rather outsiders and pagans; regardless of our conversion to the Triune faith. My sons, we may never dispense of caution, but we must rule over it, and not become its slaves. For there is not a prison more final and cruel such as that of fear.”
Father died early, all too early, he thought to himself.
And afterwards, Kalafar signalled for the first petitioners to come forth. The doors opened, and several men entered the hall. They were burghers – the dwellers of towns who made their living from commerce and craft. Their leader was a short man with a round belly, plump face, and pale eyes. He wore a red cloak, yellow shirt underneath a green-faded jerkin vest, green breeches, and fine boots. There was no surprise as to why he was completely bald, for a big boil stood on top of his head. He tried to conceal it by keeping his chin up. A poor effort, since the man’s so short. But at least he tries to spare us the sight of it. The ram beckoned him to approach.
The short fat man covered his head with his right hand, and gave a bow. He managed a decent one, and succeeded in covering up his boil under the pretext of gracious manners. He might not be a fool, after all… “Present yourself, good sir.”
“Liege lord, I am grand burgher Adolf Osseldorf of Runswick. I have come before you bearing an issue of great import.” The man’s voice was articulate, his tone urgent.
“Pray tell, what is this issue?”
“The town of Runswick belonged to the Boregard family for almost eighty years. However, the senior, Matteos Boregard, has been dead for almost two decades. And his son, Albertos, never took up his claim upon Runswick. The man has been whoring and drinking all his life. Now that he ran out of coin, he means to reclaim the right he has scorned and abandoned. By natural law, the property belongs to he who makes use of it. All these years I have been grand burgher indeed, and have managed with great responsib
ility the affairs of Runswick. Albertos Boregard means to usurp that title which has clearly and justly fallen unto me.”
“Prescription,” said Kalafar, “when founded on long and undisputed possession, must have full effect without admitting any claim towards the possession as being unjust. Save if very clear and convincing evidence is brought forth. For in the absence of it, everyone is to be considered a possessor in good faith.” Unlike his martial brother, Kalafar Sodomis had a quick mind in such matters, a good steward’s mind.
The grand burgher shook his head, and resumed his speech; as if quoting from the parchment of ancient wisdoms. “Any proprietor who expressly commits or omits certain acts, which he cannot commit or omit without renouncing his right, expresses his intention of relinquishing his right or title. It is lawfully presumed that he abandons his right. If he wishes to resume it afterwards, I can plead prescription in bar to his claim. He cannot invoke any worthwhile reason for his years long silence. Mine own pretensions are lawful. All men should respect the right of property in him who makes use of it.”
“Yes. That is lawful, grand burgher Adolf. One, who absolutely neglects his property for quite a lengthy time, cannot reclaim it afterwards according to his caprice.” The man has the right of it. He is no fool. He only looks like a pig, and to make things worse, he has a boil on top of his head. Quite uncanny this one, but clever and most eloquent.
Lord Sodomis assured the grand burgher that he would back him on principle, but only after his steward and advisor, lord Alghernon, would look into the matter and inquire on the legitimacy of Albertos Boregard’s claim. Adolf Osseldorf had managed an involuntary twist of the mouth after hearing his liege lord’s decision. But nonetheless, bowed reverently – his hand covering the giant boil on his head. The grand burgher left not without presenting his sire with a gift.
“I do hope it is to your liking, my lord.”
Osseldorf revealed a beautiful steel breastplate, depicting in bas-relief a ram’s snout and horns; the symbol beast of house Sodomis. A most handsome gift indeed, wrought by the most skillful blacksmith in Runswick – or so Osseldorf claimed. Kalafar thanked the grand burgher. And decided he would try on the armor, to see how it would fit, right after the next petitioning party was dealt with.
The guards announced the second and final petitioners, and a large group of men entered the hall. By count, they were twenty – commoners of wind-battered features, carrying the scent of dung in their thick rugged cloaks. The eldest among them had a long grey beard, all the way down to his neck, blue eyes, rich eyebrows, and wore a thick brown cap. He took it off before opening his mouth to speak. It always pleased Kalafar to see the lowborn remembering proper manners.
“Lord warden...”
“Yes? What do you all require of me?”
The old man nodded and made two steps forward. “My name is Walsen, lord,” he said warily, “and we’ve come before you like the scared lot we are. Please, please, don’t send us away, once you hear of our plight. For we’ve told lord Brax about it, but he only laughed at us and had his guards throw us out of his keep.”
Kalafar sensed the old man’s agitated words – they seemed all true to his ears. “Tell me what the matter is. I can’t help you if I don’t know. And rest assured… for no one is going to lay a hand on you. Unlike lord Brax, the laws of hospitality actually mean something to me. What is this plight of yours?”
“The villages… our villages,” the man struggled for words, “have suffered attacks on their cattle – wolf attacks. So far, no one was harmed, but the people grow scared, milord. We haven’t had such attacks, not even since the days of my grandfather; and I’m four and fifty, sire. I’ve seen my fair share of wild beasts.”
“There must be something more to this,” Kalafar said; an inquisitive frown narrowing his eyes. “Lord Holton Brax would not have thrown you out on account of wolves. Is there something you’re not telling me, my good man?”
Some of the peasants began to whisper amongst themselves, and between those whispers he discerned, “Tell him… Yes, tell him; he’ll listen to us. He gave us his word.” The old man nodded left and right to his brethren. He squeezed the brown cap between his hands and found the courage to speak. “Yes, milord. There is something else… a queerness,” he uttered the word with half a mouth. “Those who saw our poor animals being savaged claimed they saw werewolves...”
“Werewolves? More than one?” Kalafar arched an eyebrow and frowned the other. “And you people think that these monsters come from the Black Forest, I presume?”
The men nodded, and a younger one of the lot spoke out. “Yes, milord… I’ve seen such a devil with mine own eyes. It was late in the evening. Startled by strange noises, I went outside. And there I saw the fiend. It was eating and clawing at one of my goats. Horrible noises it made, wet sounds. And the beast had devilish eyes, which glowed red in the dark. It stood upright, like a man, when it saw me… then I ran back inside my home, terrified of what I witnessed.” The peasants felt more courageous now as they muttered loudly in agreement with the man’s testimony.
The elder one, Walsen, took up voice once again. “This has been happening for almost three months, milord. We are getting more afraid and worried with each passing day. We’ve tried telling this to lord Brax, but he would not hear of it. Mad superstition, he calls it. We’ve tried speaking with knights too. They are supposed to defend the weak, after all. But most of them didn’t believe us. While only some of them offered to help us; to hunt down the fiends that were killing our animals. However, they wanted payment in return. Milord, we have no money. We’re poor folk… but we’re honest hardworking folk. I swear to you, we’re not making up lies.”
“If these wolves or werewolves – whatever they are – are causing such attacks on the livestock, I’m disturbed that lord Holton and his knights remain idle. Is it not their property? The animals that are savaged by the fiends?”
“That’s the thing of it, milord… this is happening only to us free folk. There is no one to protect us. We live solely by our own labor, no one else’s. Our freedom comes with a price, though. We’re forced to sell our milk and eggs and meat only to Herron’s Keep. If we were permitted to sell it to the burghers, we’d fetch a better price and could better handle our rents. Alas, that is forbidden. And the punishment is quite high – twelve whiplashes for a man and his wife, and five for their children. If they’re under ten and frail, they are usually given only one lash.”
Kalafar felt the dread in the man’s voice, and he could sense a foul taste at the back of his neck, a feeling of revolt. To whip a man’s wife and children? I had no knowledge of this. The cold of the north makes for a harsh enough life. Why must the highborn add more suffering to the lives of the peasantry? “I will speak of this matter with Brax. A lord may have this privilege to preferential prices, but there can be no just explanation for such harsh a punishment in the defence of a mere privilege; especially one that has nothing to do with honor.”
“Milord is kind and just,” said the old man, “but lord Holton Brax would punish us even more severely. We beg for your pardon, milord. We free folk don’t like to cause trouble; all we’ve ever done is to work the land, and live off it as best we can manage. But we’ve never had trouble with devilish creatures before.”
Kalafar had forgotten all about the wild claims of werewolves.
Then a younger man spoke out. “The legends say they can’t be killed with arrows or swords, only with silver – ”
“Utter nonsense! Anything can be killed if you’ve severed its head!”
Walsen then replied something in a faint voice; but Kalafar didn’t catch it.
“Speak louder, old man. I promised no harm would come to you and your lot. Show me the courtesy of not calling me a liar.”
“Worms and roaches, milord,” Walsen spoke low and in defence.
“Worms and roaches? What of them?”
“If you cut a worm in half, it grows that other half ba
ck. It’s not dead… A roach can live still, even if you remove its head.”
“Yes, well… we were not talking about worms and insects. We were talking about werewolves. I failed to see any wolf and indeed any man survive decapitation.” There was no doubt in Kalafar’s mind. He had the right of it and was set on the matter. These plebeians were obviously scared, and had traveled quite the distance to tell him of their plight. They deserved aid – and he would give it to them.
“Fear not, good people. The lord of Weiyenor is on your side, and those fiends, whatever their nature, will be hunted down and killed. The safety of your livestock and the tranquillity of your villages will be restored. I will send skilled hunters to make useful pelts out of those troublesome beasts.” He signalled his lord uncle and steward to go get his purse and give each man five coppers as a token of good will.
The peasants thanked his lordship, bowed and uttered all kinds of praises, save for the old man, Walsen. He thought it more fitting to give a simple and honest bow, instead of speaking all manner of flattery; not that such poor folk had any talent for it. Kalafar waved them off, and left his chair; he had grown stiff in that thing and quite thirsty…
As he poured himself a cup of red in his solar, the young warden of the Winterlands thought about the treatment those smallfolk endured; the harsh whipping that lord Holton Brax approved of and presided over. Chastising a man’s wife and children, all for the sake of lower prices – unfair prices. The ram frowned with indignation. Privilege and right are no excuse for cruelty, especially since these people commit no true crime. I will change things, at least here in the north. Fight injustice and devil beasts alike.
After he finished his wine, Kalafar remembered the grand burgher’s gift – the breastplate embossed with a ram’s head and horns. He held the thing. Studied it, tracing the bas-relief with his forefingers, and feeling the texture. Kalafar found the breastplate suited his measure. He felt comfortable in it, and looking himself in the mirror... the ram smiled. His brother, Arfaij, had a broader frame than him; but his was no less imposing.
An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1) Page 20