kept as were those magnificent sculptures. The structure flaunted its infirmity, an aging warrior who knew his best days were long behind him but dared anyone else to tell him to his face. Flaking mortar had been hastily patched, entire bricks replaced, and the brass chandeliers within the entry hall were polished well enough to shine, but not to remove the verdigris and tarnish that had long since set in. It was not the wear of true neglect so much as signs of a slapdash effort by servants who knew that they were hideously outnumbered in their battle against the castle’s many years.
Servants in crimson-and-blue livery stepped aside for the knight and his two charges to pass, bobbing their heads in quick respect to the former but glaring from beneath heavy eyelids at the latter. The LadyMavere, though she’d expected no warm welcome from the people of Braetlyn, felt her fingers curling into fists despite her best efforts.
Their guide shoved open a hefty wooden portal, and they were there. Before them stretched a sizable room, its stone floor draped in sea-green carpet scuffed paper-thin by years of tromping feet. An enormous fireplace—empty, during these warmer months—occupied most of the far wall, with a marble bust of a warrior’s torso mounted above. Tapestries of seascapes and legendary heroics hung from the other walls, as did wooden plaques bearing weapons in modern steel and ancient bronze.
And standing before that fireplace, looking up from an open book in a bored stance quite clearly premeditated to show his guests who was in charge, their host himself: Jassion, Baron of Braetlyn. Not yet thirty years old, his narrow face bore the lines of a man twice his age. Save for a gleaming green ring, he was clad in unrelenting black. Hair the color of newly tilled soil was matched by equally dark eyes—eyes just a touch too wide, as if the man behind them could not tear them from some horror that others could not see.
“Your guests, m’lord,” the knight announced, waiting for only the slightest nod before he vanished from the chamber. The door shut behind him with surprising softness, as though afraid to startle anyone remaining within.
“So,” Jassion said, shutting the book with a much louder snap and tossing it carelessly into a nearby chair. “Salia Mavere, in my very own home. I’m honored.” He apparently couldn’t be bothered to even
try
to make it sound genuine.
“Thank you for receiving us, my lord,” she replied with a shallow curtsy. He acknowledged with a nod barely more perceptible than that he’d given his knight.
“Do you prefer
Priestess
, Lady Mavere? Or Guildmistress?”
“Just Salia will do, Baron.”
Jassion barked out a single incredulous
ha!
“There’s nothing
just
about any of you damn Guildmasters. Or anything you’ve done.”
Salia managed, with some small effort, to keep her smile plastered to her face, to show no reaction to the baron’s childish outburst. Her companion,however, rolled his eyes dramatically enough for the both of them.
“I’m glad,” she bulled on, determined to remain polite, “that you were able to see us without notice like this, my lord. I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience.”
Jassion shook his head and took a seat, very deliberately
not
asking his guests to do the same. “I could hardly have been elsewhere, could I, Salia? Your soldiers have been squatting on every road out of here for three years.”
“You’re not a prisoner, my lord. They’re simply meant to ensure your safety, and to accompany you should you need to travel.”
Their eyes met in jousting glares, neither under any illusions about Jassion’s internal exile. “And do all Imphallion’s nobles warrant such
protection
?” he asked.
“Only those who seem liable to attract trouble.”
Salia’s driver shook his head and slumped into a nearby chair. In response to Jassion’s furious glower, he merely offered a friendly wave.
“Why don’t you take a
Servants in crimson-and-blue livery stepped aside for the knight and his two charges to pass, bobbing their heads in quick respect to the former but glaring from beneath heavy eyelids at the latter. The LadyMavere, though she’d expected no warm welcome from the people of Braetlyn, felt her fingers curling into fists despite her best efforts.
Their guide shoved open a hefty wooden portal, and they were there. Before them stretched a sizable room, its stone floor draped in sea-green carpet scuffed paper-thin by years of tromping feet. An enormous fireplace—empty, during these warmer months—occupied most of the far wall, with a marble bust of a warrior’s torso mounted above. Tapestries of seascapes and legendary heroics hung from the other walls, as did wooden plaques bearing weapons in modern steel and ancient bronze.
And standing before that fireplace, looking up from an open book in a bored stance quite clearly premeditated to show his guests who was in charge, their host himself: Jassion, Baron of Braetlyn. Not yet thirty years old, his narrow face bore the lines of a man twice his age. Save for a gleaming green ring, he was clad in unrelenting black. Hair the color of newly tilled soil was matched by equally dark eyes—eyes just a touch too wide, as if the man behind them could not tear them from some horror that others could not see.
“Your guests, m’lord,” the knight announced, waiting for only the slightest nod before he vanished from the chamber. The door shut behind him with surprising softness, as though afraid to startle anyone remaining within.
“So,” Jassion said, shutting the book with a much louder snap and tossing it carelessly into a nearby chair. “Salia Mavere, in my very own home. I’m honored.” He apparently couldn’t be bothered to even
try
to make it sound genuine.
“Thank you for receiving us, my lord,” she replied with a shallow curtsy. He acknowledged with a nod barely more perceptible than that he’d given his knight.
“Do you prefer
Priestess
, Lady Mavere? Or Guildmistress?”
“Just Salia will do, Baron.”
Jassion barked out a single incredulous
ha!
“There’s nothing
just
about any of you damn Guildmasters. Or anything you’ve done.”
Salia managed, with some small effort, to keep her smile plastered to her face, to show no reaction to the baron’s childish outburst. Her companion,however, rolled his eyes dramatically enough for the both of them.
“I’m glad,” she bulled on, determined to remain polite, “that you were able to see us without notice like this, my lord. I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience.”
Jassion shook his head and took a seat, very deliberately
not
asking his guests to do the same. “I could hardly have been elsewhere, could I, Salia? Your soldiers have been squatting on every road out of here for three years.”
“You’re not a prisoner, my lord. They’re simply meant to ensure your safety, and to accompany you should you need to travel.”
Their eyes met in jousting glares, neither under any illusions about Jassion’s internal exile. “And do all Imphallion’s nobles warrant such
protection
?” he asked.
“Only those who seem liable to attract trouble.”
Salia’s driver shook his head and slumped into a nearby chair. In response to Jassion’s furious glower, he merely offered a friendly wave.
“Why don’t you take a
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