The Heir of Jeragoth

Bertrand and Neridius arrived in the study at almost the same time. Neridius gently laid Iliard down on the largest sofa in the room. He turned to Bertrand and said, “I will get Saranya. It would be wise to watch over him until she gets here.” Bertrand nodded absently, intent on settling Erienne and Alana.

As Neridius was about to close the door behind him, Bertrand said, “Get Gormin too. I want him to know what’s going on.” Neridius nodded and closed the door.

After Bertrand had gotten Erienne comfortable, he went to check on his brother. As he was kneeling down beside the sofa, he heard someone quietly clear his throat. He whirled around and found his Foreign Relations Minister, Lord Tarrion, Sarin Assumka, in the back of the study standing by his desk. “What the hell are you doing here?” Bertrand asked.

Assumka’s eyes widened only very slightly. “My Lord,” he replied calmly, “You left in such a hurry, we did not have an opportunity to discuss High Baron Galiblent’s proposal.”

“Galiblent can go to hell,” Bertrand spat as he bent over the prone form of his brother. “I don’t have time for this.”

Assumka, a tall thin man whose thick hair had long since turned white, gazed at the scene before him. He had seen Neridius appear carrying Iliard in his arms. Until now, no one had ever seen Neridius do anything useful. Assumka would have to reevaluate his assumptions about his Baron’s advisor.

Lord Iliard’s condition left no doubt that there had been a battle of some kind. The appearance of High Baron Candril carrying a sword, with his mistress and illegitimate daughter in tow, confirmed that the battle somehow involved them. This was something he would have to investigate. He cleared his throat again. “My Lord?” he said tentatively.

Bertrand whipped his head around and snarled, “What?”

Assumka felt a shiver of trepidation. His gaze slid briefly over to Erienne, who was sitting in a soft chair in the corner attempting to comfort Alana. “Is…the young lady going to live in the castle now?”

“What I do is none of your damn business,” Bertrand growled

Bertrand bent down to listen to Iliard’s breathing, then stood up and began pacing the room, still holding his sword. He stopped short when he nearly ran over Assumka, who was looking at him expectantly. “What in all the nine hells do you want?” he snapped at the smaller man.

“My Lord,” Assumka began hesitantly, “Do you not think this situation will put a strain on your relations with Lady Candril’s father?”

Bertrand’s eyes went wide and his face reddened with rage. “Do you really think I give a damn what Emeldius thinks?” His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. “Get the hell out of here! Now!”

Assumka spoke not another word, bowed deeply, and quickly went around Bertrand and out of the study. A short time later, the doors opened again and Neridius stepped through followed closely by a petite woman in white robes who went straight over to Iliard and knelt by his side. She put one hand on his forehead and the other on his bloodied chest and began murmuring a prayer.

A few moments later, Iliard opened his eyes slowly and turned his head to one side to look at the Priestess. “Hello Saranya.”

Saranya smiled, “How are you feeling?”

“Better, thank you,” he replied.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” she said, “and you are seriously depleted. You must rest for at least the remainder of the day.”

“I will,” Iliard said.

Saranya looked at him skeptically. “I mean it, Iliard. You need to rest. No teleporting or anything like that.”

“Don’t worry, Saranya,” Bertrand said. “I’ll get him to rest.”

Saranya stood up. “I hope so.” She looked down at Iliard, her steel grey eyes boring into his. “I will come to your room later this evening to check on you.”

Iliard chuckled, “All right, all right. I’ll be there.”

Saranya nodded, turned to Bertrand saying and said, “Please call on me if you need me, Bert.”

The door burst open again and Colonel Tabor Gormin, head of the palace guard, leader of the Candril Brigade, and former traveling companion of the Brothers Candril, came rushing in. He was easily as big as Bertrand, dark-skinned, grizzled and graying, but still looked very much like he could wrestle the High Baron to the ground if he wanted to. He looked around the room, going from Bertrand to Neridius to Erienne and Alana, and finally to Iliard, who was pushing himself upright. “What’s going on?” he asked in a voice like gravel. “A guard came running in saying Neridius was covered in blood and you were dying.” He looked Bertrand up and down. “You don’t look dead.” He turned at looked at Iliard. “You, on the other hand, look like hell.”

“Thanks,” Iliard said.

A slight smirk touched Saranya’s lips. “I will see you this evening, Iliard,” she said as she walked out. After Neridius closed the door behind the Priestess, Iliard tried to stand up then sat back down just as quickly, his eyes going out of focus.

“And you call me stubborn,” Bertrand said with a snort as everyone in the room looked at Iliard. He was very pale and his lips were drawn thin.

“What happened?” Gormin asked.

Bertrand laid his sword on his desk and explained as much as he knew, ending with, “So I’m moving Erienne and Alana to the castle.”

Iliard shot a quick glance at Erienne, who was staring wide-eyed at the opulence that surrounded her. “Bert, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why? You don’t think she be safer here?” Bertrand asked.

“It’s not that…”

Bertrand interrupted him. “Tabor, what do you think? Will they be safer here than in the city?”

“I can protect them both better here at the castle, there’s no doubt of that,” Gormin replied. He looked over at Erienne and Alana. “If there’s one Assassin, there’ll be more.”

“Bert” Iliard interjected, “It’s just that I don’t think that this is the best place for Erienne and Alana.” He nodded in Erienne’s direction. “Wouldn’t it be better to ask Erienne what she wants?”

“I still don’t understand why you think she won’t be safe here.” Bertrand said, misinterpreting Iliard’s concern. Erienne noticed how he didn’t acknowledge the second part of his brother’s statement.

“What about Mirasol?” Iliard asked.

“I’ll take care of Mirasol,” Bertrand answered coldly. “She has no say in this.”

Iliard raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that big brother.”

“I guess we’ll see who’s right,” Bertrand said gruffly. Turning to Neridius he said, “Send someone to get Mirasol.”

“Of course,” Neridius replied and hurried from the study, closing the door against the prying eyes of the servants.

Bertrand looked over at Gormin and said, “I want to talk about increasing security in the castle. Maybe some teleportation wards or something like that. Why don’t you talk it over with Esras and find out what kinds of spells he can cast.”

“Sure thing,” Gormin answered. “I’ll get on it right away.” As he turned to leave, he paused to take a long look at Iliard. “You gonna be all right? I haven’t seen you look this bad since that fight with the hydra.”

Iliard smiled wanly. “I’ll be fine Tabor. You worry too much.”

“Uh huh,” Gormin replied incredulously. “Maybe I’ll come check on you too.”

Iliard rolled his eyes. “By the gods. I’m surrounded by nursemaids. I’ll be fine.”

The door opened and Neridius came back into the study looking quite flustered. “I think you’d best get Erienne to a guest room immediately. It seems someone has already informed the Baroness of Erienne’s arrival.”

“Come on Erienne,” Iliard said standing up slowly. She looked near to tears. He paused for a moment and looked steadily at Bertrand, “Just remember my first priority.”

Bertrand scowled at his brother. “I know what I have to do.”

Iliard nodded and guided Erienne out the study doors. They had only gone a few feet when Iliard muttered a curse and stopped walking. Startled, Erienne followed his gaze and let out a small gasp. Coming down the hallway was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen.

Regal and stunningly beautiful, Mirasol moved with a grace that made it look like she was gliding rather than walking. Her white gown was woven throughout with gold filaments and trailed long on the floor behind her. Her high cheekbones and perfectly smooth face made her look like a porcelain doll. Her long, flowing blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders and her back, easily reaching three quarters of the way down her five and a half foot height.

Her eyes narrowed slightly when she saw Iliard, Erienne and Alana. Iliard met Mirasol’s gaze with a cold stare and put his hand on Erienne’s shoulder. He stood there, his eyes never leaving Mirasol’s face, until she passed them and went into Bertrand’s study. Iliard let out a noise that almost sounded like a growl and then said, “Let’s get the two of you settled in.”

#

“My Lord has summoned me.” Mirasol’s voice was delicate but cold.

“Leave us,” he said gruffly to Neridius and Gormin.

Bertrand and Mirasol stared at each other from opposite sides of the desk until the door had closed behind the two men.

“Sit.” Bertrand motioned curtly for Mirasol to take the small, red velvet chair in front of his desk.

“I will stand,” Mirasol said coldly. She stood stock still and stiffly straight, looking across at Bertrand down the length of her thin, perfectly shaped nose.

Bertrand’s fist hit his desk so hard it cracked. Mirasol jumped at the sound. As the boom of the impact echoed around the study he shouted, “I said sit, now!”

Mirasol quickly regained her composure and curtsied deeply to him. She moved gracefully over to the chair, sitting on the very edge of it, her back straight. She glared at him but said nothing.

“My daughter will grow up in the castle.” He paused for a moment to let that sink in. He didn’t try to guess what she was thinking. Her face had been inscrutable for the last three years. “Her mother will remain here as her nursemaid.”

“You dare to bring that whore into my home?” Mirasol spat.

“I will have Alana raised to believe you are her mother.” Bertrand continued, as if he had not heard her.

“Your bastard child will never by my daughter. I will never…”

“You will,” Bertrand boomed, cutting her off, “do nothing to change her belief that you are her mother, or…”

“Or what?” she said in an icy voice through clenched teeth.

Bertrand walked quickly around his desk and stood in front of her chair. He grabbed the arms of the chair and leaned over to put his face inches from hers. He tried to mimic her soft, cold voice as he said, “There’s nothing that says I can’t make my daughter heir to the barony.” He stared into her face intently until he could see comprehension dawn upon it.

Her lip was quivering ever so slightly. Her face was flushed. “I…is there anything else my Lord commands?”

Long gone were the days when he felt any compassion for her pain. He stood and walked around behind his desk again. “You may go,” he said he turned to stare out the tall window down to the valley below.

Neridius came into the room after Mirasol left. “I do not understand your choice,” he said with genuine concern. He moved to stand in front of Bertrand’s desk. Bertrand’s back was still turned to him.

“I have my reasons,” Bertrand said distantly.

“We shall see soon enough how difficult you have just made Alana’s life.” Neridius tried to fathom the emotional state of his Lord, but he couldn’t have guessed that Bertrand’s eyes were misty red.

“Now I must go speak to Erienne,” Bertrand murmured without turning around.