of cornices and embellishments.
Now, the fine old ceiling was cracked the width of the room, with bare spots where a number of the geometric three-dimensional plaster shapes had fallen. Reese’s home sustained less damage than many of the other manor houses. But the telltale signs were all around: a fire-damaged wing and burned dependencies. Scorch marks on the stone, new repairs, or places where repairs had not been done at all. Cracks that ran through the thick stone walls, a testimony to the sheer power of the magical strike. Pollard’s own manor had fared much worse.
Precious good your own title is doing you, Lord Pollard
, his own voice mocked in his mind.
Who holds the reins
–
and who wears the bit?
Pollard’s right hand dug his fingers into the thick pile of the carpet in frustration, and he murmured a litany of curses. After a few moments, the worst of the vertigo passed. Pride more than prudence forced him to his feet. He staggered and dropped heavily into a chair near the fireplace. It did not surprise him to find a bottle of fine brandy and a crystal glass waiting for him, as well as a selection of cheeses and a platter of roasted venison, still warm from the kitchen. Such was the nature of fealty to Pentreath Reese, a dizzying swing between generosity and fear.
Pollard stripped off his shirt and threw it to the ground. It was spattered with blood, and he had no intention of wearing it when he went to meet with his men. Thus far, the humiliations Reese chose to deliver had been private, and Pollard intended to keep it that way as long as possible. Knowing Reese, there would be a fresh shirt hanging in the wardrobe, perhaps with an entirely new cloak and pants as well.
Generous. And terrifying at the same time
, Pollard thought.
Pollard distracted himself by focusing on his dinner. Though Reese had no need to eat, he maintained a kitchen staff that was the equal of that of any of the great houses. It was whispered that Reese’s title had been purchased, not earned, and that his wealth had been extorted over the centuries.
Perhaps.
If so, Reese had learned how to handle himself with as true an aristocratic mien as any of the lords of Donderath. Now, with the kingdom in ruins, the provenance of a man’s title mattered little. Except, perhaps, in the case of Blaine McFadden.
Pollard finished the venison and washed it down with half of the brandy before his nerves felt steady enough for him to sleep and the ache in his arm had dulled. He wondered, as he climbed into the high four-poster bed, whether Reese had tampered with his dreams, but his sleep, when it came, was untroubled.
The next morning, Pollard’s mood was sour as he rode back to his encampment. He dismounted and thrust the reins into the hands of a waiting groom, then strode toward his tent. Inside, he allowed himself a deep breath, trying to put the horrors of the previous night behind him. The canvas tent was a mark of both rank and privilege. It was twice as large as the officers’ tents, big enough for a table and chairs for strategy meetings and a few portable luxuries: throw rugs, a small silver set for serving
fet
, pewter drinking goblets, and a brassbound trunk with a selection of what brandy and spirits could still be found.
A pot of water boiled on a small brazier in the center of the room. The brazier took the chill off the tent, although with the days growing shorter and solstice not far off, the harshest days of winter were yet to come, and the most comfortable tent would not afford the warmth of a real house.
“Welcome back, Lord Pollard,” Kerr said, bustling through the tent flap. He bent immediately to take the steaming kettle from the brazier, pouring it over the dark syrup in the silver pot to make the strong, bitter drink that would clear Pollard’s head and revive him.
“What did I miss?”
“Nothing but the usual drills and the incessant archery practice,” Kerr replied, unflappable despite Pollard’s moods.
Now, the fine old ceiling was cracked the width of the room, with bare spots where a number of the geometric three-dimensional plaster shapes had fallen. Reese’s home sustained less damage than many of the other manor houses. But the telltale signs were all around: a fire-damaged wing and burned dependencies. Scorch marks on the stone, new repairs, or places where repairs had not been done at all. Cracks that ran through the thick stone walls, a testimony to the sheer power of the magical strike. Pollard’s own manor had fared much worse.
Precious good your own title is doing you, Lord Pollard
, his own voice mocked in his mind.
Who holds the reins
–
and who wears the bit?
Pollard’s right hand dug his fingers into the thick pile of the carpet in frustration, and he murmured a litany of curses. After a few moments, the worst of the vertigo passed. Pride more than prudence forced him to his feet. He staggered and dropped heavily into a chair near the fireplace. It did not surprise him to find a bottle of fine brandy and a crystal glass waiting for him, as well as a selection of cheeses and a platter of roasted venison, still warm from the kitchen. Such was the nature of fealty to Pentreath Reese, a dizzying swing between generosity and fear.
Pollard stripped off his shirt and threw it to the ground. It was spattered with blood, and he had no intention of wearing it when he went to meet with his men. Thus far, the humiliations Reese chose to deliver had been private, and Pollard intended to keep it that way as long as possible. Knowing Reese, there would be a fresh shirt hanging in the wardrobe, perhaps with an entirely new cloak and pants as well.
Generous. And terrifying at the same time
, Pollard thought.
Pollard distracted himself by focusing on his dinner. Though Reese had no need to eat, he maintained a kitchen staff that was the equal of that of any of the great houses. It was whispered that Reese’s title had been purchased, not earned, and that his wealth had been extorted over the centuries.
Perhaps.
If so, Reese had learned how to handle himself with as true an aristocratic mien as any of the lords of Donderath. Now, with the kingdom in ruins, the provenance of a man’s title mattered little. Except, perhaps, in the case of Blaine McFadden.
Pollard finished the venison and washed it down with half of the brandy before his nerves felt steady enough for him to sleep and the ache in his arm had dulled. He wondered, as he climbed into the high four-poster bed, whether Reese had tampered with his dreams, but his sleep, when it came, was untroubled.
The next morning, Pollard’s mood was sour as he rode back to his encampment. He dismounted and thrust the reins into the hands of a waiting groom, then strode toward his tent. Inside, he allowed himself a deep breath, trying to put the horrors of the previous night behind him. The canvas tent was a mark of both rank and privilege. It was twice as large as the officers’ tents, big enough for a table and chairs for strategy meetings and a few portable luxuries: throw rugs, a small silver set for serving
fet
, pewter drinking goblets, and a brassbound trunk with a selection of what brandy and spirits could still be found.
A pot of water boiled on a small brazier in the center of the room. The brazier took the chill off the tent, although with the days growing shorter and solstice not far off, the harshest days of winter were yet to come, and the most comfortable tent would not afford the warmth of a real house.
“Welcome back, Lord Pollard,” Kerr said, bustling through the tent flap. He bent immediately to take the steaming kettle from the brazier, pouring it over the dark syrup in the silver pot to make the strong, bitter drink that would clear Pollard’s head and revive him.
“What did I miss?”
“Nothing but the usual drills and the incessant archery practice,” Kerr replied, unflappable despite Pollard’s moods.
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