The Heir of Jeragoth

Erienne’s footsteps echoed on the snow-white marble floor as she stared open mouthed at the incredible opulence. The walls were decorated with elaborately detailed tapestries, in front of which stood marble busts of previous Barons on gilded pedestals or ancient suits of highly polished armor. When they got to the forty foot high entrance hallway, she just stopped and stared in open-mouthed wonder. Two identical white marble staircases curved gracefully up either side of the hall and led to a gallery balcony that overlooked the enormous room. Twenty feet above the balcony, a glass domed ceiling allowed the brilliant sunlight to shine down on the mosaic in the center of the floor. The mosaic, a replica of the Candril family crest, had been fashioned out of every color gem imaginable and outlined with gold and silver.

Iliard smiled at her wide-eyed wonder. He barely noticed the splendor around him. “I think this way would be best,” he said, indicating the right-hand staircase.

As they were about to mount the staircase, a thin, middle-aged woman dressed in a dark gray skirt and white blouse appeared at the top of the stairs. She looked down at the pair and gasped in horror, “My Lord!”

Iliard raised his hand and said reassuringly, “It’s all right Lucine, I’m fine now. I just look bad. These two young ladies will be staying here. Would you please prepare the northeast guest room?”

She curtsied quickly and said, “Yes my Lord,” and then hurried back in the direction from which she had come.

“I think you’ll like the northeast guest room,” Iliard said as he started up the stairs. Erienne merely nodded as she followed him, still too awestruck to say anything.

When they reached the top of the long staircase, Erienne noticed that Iliard was winded and struggling. “Are you all right?” she asked.

Iliard gave her a quick smile. “I’m fine. I’m just a little tired.”

Erienne smiled back at him, but she was worried. She put her hand on his arm and said, “You’ve given so much. I owe you our lives.”

He shook his head. “It’s all right. Please don’t worry about it.” He turned to his right. “It’s this way.”

They walked down a hallway that was paneled from floor to ceiling with a deep red mahogany. The polished floor boards were covered with a thick, royal blue runner. The walls bore portraits of past Baronesses interspersed with fanciful landscapes.

The northeast guest room was bustling with activity when they arrived. As she hesitantly walked in the wide doorway, Erienne realized that the “room” was actually a suite of rooms. Instead of the ostentatious crimson that was pervasive in Castle Candril, the furniture in the anteroom was covered in a cream colored, richly textured fabric embroidered with dark blue and green flowers. She followed Iliard into the large bedroom. Through a door to her right Erienne could see what was most likely a small dressing room and beyond that a large bathing chamber.

Two servants were straightening up the bedroom. When they saw Iliard and Erienne enter the room, they stopped what they were doing and stared wide-eyed at them before hurriedly curtsying. “Ladies,” Iliard said quietly, “This is Erienne and the small one is Alana.”

The two women curtsied and murmured, “My Lady.”

Erienne smiled tentatively and said shyly, “Please just call me Erienne. The room is beautiful.”

The youngest of the two servants, a slightly plump girl with a cheerful smile who looked to be in her late teens, approached Erienne and said, “Miss, would you like to lay the baby on the bed until the crib comes?”

“Yes, thank you…” Erienne looked at her curiously.

She curtsied again and said, “Jena, miss.”

“Thank you, Jena. She was getting a bit heavy to carry.”

Erienne laid Alana in the middle of the bed. After a few moments she started to whimper in her sleep. The other servant said, “She’s probably cold, poor little thing. Here,” she went to a low chest at the foot of the bed and pulled out a light coverlet, “This’ll keep her warm.” She laid the blanket over Alana and she immediately settled down and went back to sleep. She turned to Erienne and said, “My name’s Ophelia, miss.” She was a short, squat, pleasant, middle aged woman with a bright smile.

“Ophelia. That’s a pretty name,” Erienne said.

“Thank you, miss.”

Lucine came in and directed two men to put a crib next to the bed. She turned to Iliard and asked politely, “My Lord, should I prepare your rooms?”

Iliard nodded and said, “Yes, Lucine. I will be staying here for a while.”

“Very good, my Lord,” Lucine said as she made a shallow curtsey to Erienne.

The three women curtsied once again and then all five left.

Iliard sensed Erienne’s discomfort and said, “Don’t worry. They’ll relax when they get to know you.” He walked over to one of the large windows at the far end of the room and beckoned her, “Come here. Let me show you something.” He brought her over to a large window framed by dark blue velvet curtains, which had been pulled to let in the sun. The window sill was deep enough to sit in and the diamond paned windows had two handles in the middle so that they could be opened inward. Iliard pulled open the windows and Erienne gasped. The view was magnificent. A thousand feet below the castle stretched the vast plains of Seldonia. They were dotted with cattle and farms and Erienne thought she could see another, much smaller castle in the distance. The most stunning spectacle however, was the dark green line that denoted the edge of the Great Forest. The forest stretched for thousands of miles, like a velvet carpet that was violently torn open by the peak of a mountain that rose majestically upward thousands of feet to its snowcapped peaks. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed softly.

“Yes it is,” Iliard replied. “This was my mother’s favorite room just for that reason

“When did she die?” Erienne asked sympathetically.

“Die?” Iliard responded with a slightly crooked smile. “As far as I know she’s still alive. I’m sure I would know if she died.”

“Oh,” said Erienne, “Doesn’t she live here in the castle then?”

“No. She hasn’t lived here since long before Bertrand became Baron. But you did pass her in the hallway.” When Erienne threw a puzzled look at him, he chuckled and said, “Her portrait is out there.”

“Oh,” Erienne replied with a slight smile. “Where does she live, then? I mean she must be very old. Who’s taking care of her?”

Iliard chuckled. “My mother is quite capable of taking care of herself. She’s a Novadi warrior.”

Erienne’s confusion deepened. “A warrior? But, wouldn’t she be too old by now?”

“Although I don’t know exactly how old she is, I’m fairly certain she’s over four hundred years old. I imagine though,” he continued with a twinkle in his eyes, “that she would probably take exception if you were to tell her that she was too old to be a warrior.”

“Four hundred?” Erienne said in disbelief. “That can’t be. Nobody lives that long.”

“Adventurers do,” he replied as he leaned against the wall in an effort to hold himself upright. “Well,” he amended, “not all adventurers live that long. Actually, most adventurers are lucky to see forty let alone four hundred. Adventuring is a difficult life. But, if you’re good, then you can live to be a thousand or even more. You see,” he began, noting her incredulity, “Adventurers live longer because they draw energy—life, I suppose you could say—from the planet itself. The more we adventure, the stronger we get. The stronger we get, the longer we live. Of course, this doesn’t make us immune to death—as you probably noticed today,” he added ruefully. “We can still be killed by just about anything else except old age.”

“But then,” Erienne began as she struggled with this new concept, “How old are you?”

Iliard thought for a moment, “One hundred sixteen, I believe.”

He almost laughed at Erienne’s look of shock. “But, you look so young,” she said in disbelief. Then it occurred to her, “Isn’t Bertrand your older brother?”

“By five years,” he answered smiling.

“Then that means…”

“Yes,” he said with a nod, “Bertrand is about one hundred twenty-one years old. But don’t tell him I told you. He’s very sensitive about it.”

Erienne giggle, “I won’t tell. “But,” she asked, “does that mean that Bertrand will live…forever?”

Iliard shook his head sadly, “No. He stopped adventuring thirty years ago. I guess you could say he picked up where he left off in terms of aging.”

Erienne nodded and then fell silent. She sat down on the window seat and looked out. Iliard took a chair near the window, deciding he should sit down before he fell down. He could sense, even through his exhaustion, that Erienne was beginning to feel overwhelmed by everything that had happened and everything that she had learned this day. After several minutes of silence Erienne said quietly, “She’s very beautiful.”

Iliard looked over at Erienne and saw the sadness in her eyes. He answered her honestly. “Mirasol is considered by many people to be the most beautiful woman in all of Seldonia.”

Something in Iliard’s tone of voice made her ask, “But you don’t think so?”

He did his best to keep the contempt out of his voice when he answered, “There’s more to beauty than good looks.”

“But still…”

“Erienne,” Iliard interrupted, “He loves you.”

“For now,” she replied.

Iliard wanted to argue with her, but he knew he would be speaking empty words. “I’m sorry. I wish I could give you more hope.”

She shook her head, “I know Alana is safe. My only hope is that when he puts me aside, he sets me free.”

The outer door opened with a bang and a moment later Bertrand came striding into the room, his face a mask of displeasure. “I need to talk to Erienne alone,” he said perfunctorily.

Iliard looked at his brother from underneath his brows and said with mock subservience, “Yes, my Lord,” and got out of the chair. “I’ll be outside if you need me,” he said as he headed to the anteroom. Once he had closed the door behind him, he laid down on the sofa in the anteroom, closed his eyes and was immediately asleep.

#

Assumka strolled thoughtfully back to his waiting carriage, his two aides in tow. Once they were underway, he recounted his exchange with the Baron and asked his aides’ opinions.

Peter Bertov, a plump man in his late twenties, rubbed his bearded chin thoughtfully and said, “The Baron cares too much about his mistress and bastard child.”

Assumka was only half listening. “Go on,” he said.

Bertov continued, “How is he going to convince the world that the child is Lady Mirasol’s daughter?”

Assumka made a small sound of disdain, and gazed out the window. “It matters not one bit whose daughter she is. If High Baron Candril says she is legitimate, then she is legitimate.”

“If we can ascertain whether or not the child is truly important,” Bertov pondered, “we might be able to use this as leverage against Baron Emeldius.”

The other aide, Francis Gellmy, an athletic young man in his early twenties looked confused. “What? How? I don’t see any connection.” His brow creased in a thoughtful frown. “I can’t see Baron Emeldius sending an Assassin who would challenge Lord Iliard. And it’s also strange that Lord Iliard was there at all. I get a feeling this has nothing do with our known enemies.” Assumka looked back from the window, visibly curious now. Gellmy continued, “This has something to do with the Candril family, but not the Barony.”

Bertov said, “The Candril family is the Barony of Candril, or hadn’t you noticed?”

As the carriage pulled into the Foreign Ministry, Assumka got up and said to Bertov as he exited, “Apparently not.”

#

Erienne looked anxiously up at Bertrand. The look on his face and the tone of his voice worried her. He looked down at her and said, “Erienne.” He paused, searching for the right words. Finally he just blurted out, “Things have changed. Now that you and Alana are living here, I have to think of Alana’s future. She’s going to grow up as the daughter of a High Baron with all of the benefits that go along with that. So…” he stopped again, shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “So, I decided that it would be best for Alana if…” he took a breath before continuing, “If people think that Mirasol is Alana’s mother.”

Erienne stared up at him, unable to speak. The pain ripped through her like a red-hot knife. She wasn’t good enough to be Alana’s mother. Bertrand hadn’t said that, but he might as well have. She was only a slave. Worse yet, she was a prostitute. The magic inscribed slave marks on her wrist reminded her of that every day. One mark for Candril and one for Pelandra’s brothel.

“I’m not sending you away,” he said, in an effort to comfort her. “You will stay here as Alana’s nursemaid. You’ll still raise her and be with her all the time. It’s just that…for the rest of the world she’ll be Mirasol’s daughter. You see, Alana will be important one day and…” he trailed off as he realized how inane he sounded.

Erienne bowed her head and murmured, “It shall be as my Lord pleases.”

“Erienne,” he growled, “It’s not like that…”

With only a warning whimper, Alana rolled over on the bed and began to wail at the top of her lungs. Erienne got up from the window seat and hurried over to her. When she picked her up, Alana began tugging at Erienne’s bodice. “She’s hungry,” Erienne said as she went to sit in the chair that Iliard had recently vacated. “She didn’t eat much breakfast.” She made comforting noises as she undid the buttons of her bodice. She looked up at Bertrand and said emotionlessly, “I’ll need some food for her.”

Bertrand gazed down at the pair of them for a long moment, feeling like he had just lost something very precious. His daughter was making little sounds of contentment as she suckled at her mother’s breast. Erienne brushed her fingers over Alana’s face. An unexpected wave of sorrow hit him. He turned around and walked away from them, saying brusquely, “I’ll send the servants with some food.” He stalked out of the room and threw the door open so hard it hit the wall and startled Iliard awake. Bertrand stormed past his brother and threw open the outer door with equal force, setting the paintings just outside the room dancing.

Iliard jumped off the couch, paused to regain his equilibrium, then hurried into Erienne’s bedroom. Erienne was trying to comfort her startled child. Iliard could feel the waves of grief coming from the young mother. After Alana had settled back into nursing, Iliard asked, “What happened?”

Erienne looked up at him, only now allowing her tears to flow. “He has taken Alana. But I am still a slave.” She bowed her head, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek.

#

Mirasol glided stiffly but gracefully out of the study. Olivia, her head lady’s maid, was waiting just outside the door. Mirasol walked past without speaking. Olivia knew from the shouting, whatever had gone on inside had gone badly. As they passed the two guards posted outside the main doors to her personal wing, Mirasol addressed them through clenched teeth, “Do not let anyone bother me.”

“Yes, Lady Mirasol,” they answered smartly and in unison. They closed the doors quickly after Mirasol and Olivia passed through. Two of her lady’s maids waited just inside the outer doors. Mirasol brushed past them without uttering a word. They exchanged worried glances. Another lady’s maid was unnecessarily straightening the room. She stopped when she saw Lady Mirasol and curtsied. Olivia silenced her with a quick shake of her head and followed Mirasol through that room. She closed the door to the outer ante-chamber after she and Mirasol entered it. They walked across it without stopping. Olivia began to think her Lady would go all the way to her bedroom before speaking. This was the worst she had ever seen her.

She was right. Mirasol went straight to her bedroom and stood next to her chair in front of her dressing table and its oversized mirror, waiting for Olivia to pull it out for her. Olivia hurried to comply.

Mirasol was shaking with rage and frustration. She tried to sit gracefully on the edge of the chair while keeping her eyes fixed on her reflection in the silver trimmed mirror. She faltered and almost missed the chair. Olivia rushed to help her as she stumbled. Mirasol pushed her away hard and made it into the chair.

Olivia stood silently with a mixture of fear and worry on her face. Mirasol sat quietly, shuddering slightly, her eyes misting up. “My son will be Baron,” she said, her voice shaking slightly.

“He will make a fine Baron, Milady,” Olivia said cautiously. She reached for the gold backed hairbrush on the dressing table and stood behind Mirasol.

“That whore will never stay in this castle,” Mirasol said as Olivia began to brush her long hair. Finally Olivia understood what had happened. The Baron was going to have two children and two women here at the castle. It would be Olivia’s job, she surmised, to help her Lady get the competition out of the castle.

“And what of the child, my...” Olivia began.

Mirasol shouted, “Never mention that thing in my presence again.” Olivia recoiled as Mirasol stared at her with eyes now alight with rage. “That bastard has decreed that that, that ... slave child will be raised as mine. Mine? As if it had noble birth. As if it had any rights whatsoever.”

Olivia moved forward again to stand directly behind Mirasol and slowly, tentatively began to brush her hair again. She would make things right for her Lady.

#

Iliard made sure that Erienne was as comfortable as she could be under the circumstances. Fortunately, Ophelia and Jena showed up with food for both Alana and Erienne and also blankets for the baby’s crib. Ophelia noticed immediately that Erienne was upset so Iliard pulled her aside and asked her to stay with Erienne and Alana for a while. He told her that if Lucine had any questions she could ask him about it.

As he slowly made his way back downstairs, he found himself getting more and more angry with his brother. What was Bertrand thinking? Erienne was a wonderful mother that Alana could be proud of, no matter what her status in life. Besides, it was within Bertrand’s power to free Erienne and remove the mark of slavery from her, but he had chosen not to do that. She couldn’t leave Bertrand without running the risk of being labeled a runaway slave. If she were caught, she would be brought back to the castle in chains and whipped at the post. Iliard cursed himself not just freeing Erienne a year ago. Now things had truly gone from bad to worse.

When Iliard reached his destination, he opened the study door without knocking. Bertrand sat in his leather chair in front of the fireplace and stared into the dancing flames. Neridius sat across the room with his eyes closed, meditating. Iliard didn’t waste any time with preamble as he strode into the room, “Bertrand, I think it’s a bad idea for Erienne and Alana to live here.”

Neridius opened his eyes and cast a worried glance at his Lord. Bertrand swung around in his chair and glared at his brother. “What do you mean by that?” he asked gruffly.

“Look Bert,” Iliard began. “I don’t mean that you cannot protect them here. I’m sure they will be very safe—physically.”

Bertrand leaned forward and barked, “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Even with the short nap he had taken, Iliard was weak and nauseous from his loss of blood. He had little patience for Bertrand’s paranoia. “It means what it means, brother,” he said curtly. “This place will be poison for Erienne. You’ve already told her that she cannot be the mother of her own child. It won’t be long before she encounters Mirasol alone. She is too sweet and trusting. Mirasol will rip her apart in seconds.”

“I talked to Mirasol. I have it under control.”

Iliard let out a short laugh. “Do you seriously believe that Mirasol won’t find a way around it?”

“I am Baron here!” Bertrand declared loudly as he slammed his clenched fist on the padded arm of the chair, “I said I have it under control. Or maybe,” he continued accusingly, “you’re just upset that you won’t have Erienne all to yourself anymore. You won’t get to sit cozy at the table teaching her how to read. And you won’t get to play the hero the next time something happens.”

“Play the hero?!” Iliard shouted. “You ungrateful son of a bitch! I almost died saving the lives of your daughter and your mistress and now you sit there and accuse me of trying to cuckold you?!” Bertrand pushed himself back into his chair, his eyes wide, speechless at his younger brother’s uncharacteristic rage. Iliard went over to his brother, put his bloodied hands on the arms of the overstuffed chair and leaned in just inches from Bertrand’s face. “Let me try to get this through your thick skull. I. DO. NOT. BED. SLAVES! He pushed himself away from the chair and straightened up. “Erienne is a sweet girl and a good mother,” he went on. “I didn’t want my niece to lose her mother, but you’re already well on your way to making that happen without the help of an Assassin. I am here to protect Alana. That is the task that I have been charged with but,” his voice rose again, “If I had my choice, I would never set foot in this place again!” He turned away from Bertrand in disgust and walked into the middle of the room. He turned to face Bertrand again, breathing heavily, his face now pale with strain, and said brutally, “As it is, I have to go to Master Philip to report how I almost failed in my task because I was stupid enough to ask my brother for help.”

Neridius leapt up and shouted, “Wait, Master Iliard! You should not …” But it was already too late. Iliard disappeared just as Neridius said the words, “…do that in your condition.” The older man turned to Bertrand and said furiously, “You have pushed him too far this time.”