/frɛnkən/
At the hanged man's memorial, there were no mourners. The Veck read out the eulogy to the deceased, though he had not known the man well. Still, he had been a regular at the manse every sabbath day, and had tithed generously. Too generously, in fact, for a man of his station, and Frenkon had learned why all too late. He had failed to confess his thefts before he died, and his dishonesty may well doom him to wander the murk for all time, never finding the warmth of the Red King's Hearth. Frenkon said an earnest prayer for the man's soul before he cast his body into the fire. He stood there a long while and watched it burn, then when what had once been a man was reduced to bones he set to crushing those up. He set what remained in an urn and set the urn on the shelf of the modest mausoleum that adjoined the manse, waiting for someone to come claim them, knowing in his heart that they would not.
He had been a valet, had worked in the big manor that the margrave kept above the town. His name had been Dino. His mother had been from Appelwood, and his father from Leadtown. Both predeceased him, one of winter fever, the other from the pinch in his gut. No wife or children to speak of. No friends, either; at least, no friends who would come out to mourn him publicly, now he had been branded a thief. He would join the other wandering souls who were damned to meander through the murk, no one to light a candle to guide him to the underworld. Such a tragedy. So senseless. All over the theft of some pewter cutlery, and now a man was dead.
The manse was cold as Frenkon came home. Big and empty was the great hall, all lined with pews for worshipers every sabbath, all echoes and full of spirits now. He called out for his apprentice, and thankfully the lad was about, popping his head up from the little kitchen that adjoined the great hall. Jon was tall and as skinny as the Springpole, with squinty brown eyes and sandy brown hair. He wore the traditional white robe of a veck's acolyte, a thin orange stripe on each of his sleeves, and was munching on a piece of bread that the baker had dropped off the day before, doffing his white cap respectfully by way of a greeting. Frenkon could not help but smile at the simple show of deference.
"Good morrow, Father," Jon said.
"Good morrow, Jon," Frenkon replied.
"How went the funeral?"
The veck sighed, "Depressingly solitary."
Jon shrugged, "No bereaved widows to comfort, no desolate children to console… it could have been worse, Father."
Frenkon stroked his great beard, still red even though the hair on his head had long since thinned and gone to gray. "A funeral with no one to mourn is always a tragedy, my child. It means the sadness all falls on the veck, and I have enough ghosts of my own."
The acolyte nodded, chastened by Frenkon's rebuke. He offered the old veck a piece of crusty black bread spread with soft white cheese, and he accepted it graciously, pacing over to take a seat at the kitchen table. All the food they ate was tithed to him by the folk of the surrounding villages, who piled in to his manse every sabbath to hear him tell of the glory of the Gods. As such, they ate plenty well, but simply. Lots of bread and cheese, not so much fresh fruit or meat, and almost no fish, which Frenkon particularly missed. His time in the city as a young man had given him the taste for fried inkfish, specifically, but even the scaly kind would do fine. Still, he was grateful to get what they got, and thanked the Gods every day for their bounty. The folk in Southmarch had to pay heavy fees to the margrave; it was a wonder they could spare anything at all.
It was still early, and Frenkon gazed out into the clear blue sky with melancholy. On bright blue days like this one, from atop the manse's hilltop perch, it felt like the little window in the kitchen was one of those wondrous screens that the Angels could make that displayed hyperreal images and transmitted voices even from miles and miles away. It seemed like another world, disconnected from the shadowy little kitchen and the big, cold manse.
Sometimes Frenkon felt so alone out here, at the end of the "civilized" world. He had been born even further south, in a village even littler than the ones around here, yet his time in the city had spoiled him with all the little niceties of urban life. So of course he had been assigned to mind souls here, where the great empire ended and the folk were simple and his little library was the greatest accumulation of knowledge that had ever been seen. It was not so bad, he reminded himself. The folk were honest and hard-working and mostly godly. The margrave was a hard man, but he was not evil, even if he was not nearly the same man his father had been. It only made sense. Old Eduard Hackel had conquered the vast and sweeping plain now known as the Southern March with a thousand men and as many horses. It was enough to make even the ablest man feel inadequate, and Margrave Evander was not the ablest man. Still, he could certainly call upon old Frenkon for counsel more often. The Gods could well interpret his lordship's absence at the manse on the sabbath as a slight just as surely as they could for any serf. But Frenkon knew enough about how the world worked to know that men of stature often thought themselves immune to the rules.
"Was he afraid?" Jon asked after a while.
"What?"
"The hanged man?" Jon seemed embarrassed at the question.
"Aye," Frenkon said quietly, "he was afraid."
Jon sighed, "Wicked men are always afraid when they die."
"Wicked, was he?" Frenkon shook his head. His apprentice could be so judgmental, but judgment was reserved for the Skyfather on High.
"He was a thief," the acolyte said matter-of-factly.
"He was a man," Frenkon shrugged. "We all have our vices, Jon. I've sinned, too."
"Your holiness," Jon sputtered, "you can't honestly compare yourself to an underhanded catspaw!"
Frenkon was drawn away then, to another day, some twenty years hence, walking along the beach of a great salty lake arm-in-arm with another. His ears were full of the sound of laughter and his nose was all full of the smell of sea air and sweat and sin. Then he was back in the present, the memories receding like a little wave on the shore.
"Have you ever thought about what it means to be a veck, Jon?" Frenkon doffed his cap, smoothing back his thinning hair over the crown of his head, where it was gone completely, before he replaced it.
"Honorable and godly service to the higher powers," Jon answered stiffly.
Frenkon shook his head. "Not that. What it means you'll have to sacrifice? What you give up as a man to become a man of the cloth?"
Jon looked at him quizzically, "Father?"
"You'll swear to never take a wife, never have children of your own. You shall take vows of poverty, chastity, and service. Your life is forfeit in obeisance to the Gods. Do you really understand what that means?"
"I think so, Father."
"You're young," Frenkon sighed. The lad was bright, and mature for his seventeen years, but his Triskedalia had come and gone only the year before. Mayhap it had been a mistake to take him on, The veck often thought. Yet he had never met another lad who reminded him so much of Natan. So godly, so devoted, so handsome yet so modest. And he could hardly expel the boy when he had done anything but faltered in his service.
"Have I done something wrong, holiness?" the lad asked in a plaintive voice that made Frenkon regret his harsh tone.
"Of course not, boy." He stroked his great beard, "I just worry about your single-mindedness sometimes."
"Sir?"
"There is some evil in all of us," Frenkon admonished the lad. "All of us, somewhere. In most of us, it's overwhelmed by the good. But it's there, and if we let it control us, it will overwhelm everything else. But I do not know that that is what happened." Jon looked curiously to the veck, so he continued, "If a man is a drunkard, is he an evil man?"
"No…"
"No, he is not. What of a gambler, or a philanderer?"
"Now hang on..."
"What of a layabout who lets his children grow up without a father?"
"Now that is evil," Jon asserted, and Frenkon did his best not to flinch.
"Whatever the case may be," the veck said, "each of us has sinned, you included, my son. Each of us is pulled to sin by the little voice in our heads. But I prefer to think that we are not defined by our worst moments, but by our best."
"Still, such a bad death," Jon said, "to go by hanging. Just pitiful."
"Remember what I told you,” Frenkon scolded him gently, and Jon nodded:
“There are no good deaths, only good lives.”
He excused himself, rising and making his way to his solar on the upper level whilst the acolyte set to beginning his daily chores. The solar was grand and spacious and sunny, its huge clear windows a gift from a Jordeen glazier whom Frenkon had known back in the city. They let the sunlight in and kept the weather out, a remarkable feat that even the fine silver-plated shutters on the margrave's manor couldn't manage. The room was lined with books and potted plants, both studiously managed by his apprentice. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, and every space that was not occupied by a window was instead filled by a bookshelf. The books were his great treasure, the accumulation of his life's labors. Some he had acquired as a young man, a select few even before he entered the priesthood. Most had been found in the City on Six Hills, purloined from the great House of Light before its demise. A smaller number had been tithed to him by the villagers, including most of the storybooks. Last but not least, there were The Books, the holy texts which contained the laws which the Gods Three had set down.
There were sacramental laws on everything; how to dress, how to bathe, how to shave, how to speak; how to live and how to die. So many that a man ought be forgiven for forgetting one or two from time to time, the old veck thought with a sly smile. He had always tried to keep his sermons simple, by contrast. His old master had once told him: Brevity is its own reward. Every restriction you set on someone is a chance for them to let you down, after all. Every hurdle you put down is a chance for someone to trip up. Best to just clear the field and let folks run at their own speed. Tell them where you want them to go, and most will find a good clean way to get there, so long as there is one. It was just too bad that this was a dirty and muddy world.
He took up his customary place, where a great shaft of sunlight illuminated him and warmed his tired bones. Settling into the old armchair that had been placed for just that purpose, Frenkon quickly began to doze. He dreamt of Talihl, the great city of creamy stone where he had spent his youth. He dreamt of love and secrets and late-night flights from the city, a yearling under his arm. The House of Light was afire and the Conclave had ordered them all put to death for their heresies, yet still he lived, by grace of the Good Old King.
He awoke with a start as a book fell to the floor. The girl was there, with her long black trails and mournful blue eyes. She was tall and slim, not beautiful, but handsome, he thought, with an air of maturity despite her youth. For Willow was still a full year away from her Triskedalia, having only fifteen years, yet she had probably read every book in his library at least once, Frenkon thought with a wry smile as he beheld her there. She was stood timidly by the book that she had dropped, an apologetic look on her face. Willow relaxed a bit when she saw his expression.
"Good morrow, father," she greeted him.
"Morrow?" Frenkon frowned, looking out to see that the sky was fully dark. He had dozed for nearly a full day. That would not do; the Triskedalia was right around the corner, and he had much work to do. Oh, would that he had the vitality of his youth. "Where is Jon?"
"He went back to the farm," Willow replied timidly.
Frenkon snapped, irritable from being roused, "What business has he there?" Willow cringed a bit at his tone, so he made himself relax.
After a little pause, she asked him: "Father, where do folk find relics?"
"All over, my child. Relics have appeared to reliquaries in their own houses, whilst in the wilds, or, most commonly, in Angelic ruins." He held up three fingers. "King St. Cyril got one Old Sword by inheritance, and the other by conquest. The original Prince-Veck of the Angelhall discovered the ruins there, along with the relics therein, many years after the Fall; and St. Errol-"
"Would one ever turn up out here?"
Frenkon chuckled. "Anything is possible, my dear. But I wouldn't count on it. So far as I know, no Angel ever took up roost out here. There are no Watchtowers burning on the ridge, if ever there were. But boy, that would be something, wouldn't it? A reliquary in the Southmarch!"
"What would happen then?"
"Well," Frenkon stroked his great beard, "The reliquary would identify himself to me or the margrave." Hopefully me, he thought grimly. The margrave was a grasping man and would likely have designs on any relic discovered in his lands. "We would serve as his two witnesses and provide a Provenance – a stamp of authenticity. We would – I would then alert the Conclave in Khozro that a new relic has been found. And there would likely be some formal ceremony to raise them up to reliquary status."
"How's that different?"
"A reliquary answers to no man," he stated simply. "He requires no leave from King or Lord to travel; he has the wisdom of the Gods, for he is an Avatar of the Angels. He can do whatever he wishes, go wherever."
"Anywhere?" breathed Willow.
"Anywhere his feet will take him," he smiled. Casting his gaze outside, he saw a faint glow on the horizon and let out a great sigh, slapping his thighs as he rose to his full six-and-a-half-feet. "Right then-"
"Do reliquaries get married?"
"They can, and sometimes they do. Now-"
"Do you think Jada will marry Milo?"
He shrugged. "That is for Jamus and your father to work out."
Willow's face twisted up with concern. "Don't she get a say?"
"Of course, my child, but traditionally the father-"
"Did you ever have a wife, Father?"
For an instant he was back in the city of his youth. Another was there, studying quietly beside him. He was a good head shorter than Frenkon himself, and handsome, with greenish eyes and freckles. It was a gray day, just as fall turned to winter, and the snow was beginning to accumulate on the windowsills. Frenkon found his attention being drawn away from his studies as he studied the man beside him instead. He stuck his tongue out between his lips ever-so-slightly when he was deep in concentration. It was adorable. Then suddenly he was back in the present, the tide of memory receding as quickly as it came. "No," he answered softly. "The lot of a veck is solitude and service."
"That's sad," said Willow, as subtle as a hammer.
"Sometimes, yes." He forced a little smile, "But I have the Earth Mother for my wife, and all the March for my children. Now I really must begin preparing. There is so much to do-"
"And Jon ain't here."
"Right, so-"
"D'you need help?"
Frenkon hesitated, though it was sorely tempting. "This is men's work," he insisted.
"I don't mind," Willow said with a toothy grin.
Frenkon slowly released a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding in. "Very well, I will have you prepare the baptismal oils. I must get to burning the charcoal and blessing the ashes and cinders. Do you know the Books well? Oh, what am I saying. Of course you do."
Willow took a deep breath, then: "Father, do you think that I-"
Frenkon held up his hand to silence her as the bell tinkled again, accompanied by the sound of sobs. A few heartbeats later, a red-haired lass appeared in the kitchen, her face streaked with tears and twisted up with grief.
"Jada?" Frenkon breathed, his heart full of love and regret and loss all at once at the sight of her.
"What happened?" cried Willow.
"They're dead, Father!" declared Jada shakily. "They're dead and it's all because of me!
It was all they could do to get the story out of her.
There had been a fire. It had started in the wood and quickly spread. Jamus had run into the hen-house to save their birds, and Jon had run in after him. Both perished. With nowhere else to go, Jada gathered up the bodies from the coals and brought them in for their rites. Frenkon patted her awkwardly whilst the girl cried into Willow's bosom. He was grateful that she was here to shoulder the emotional burden whilst his head swam and he failed to process what she had said. If it was true, not only was his apprentice dead, so was his best friend. The old eggman had been a font of comfort in the village these past fifteen years. To think that he was gone…
He left the girls to commiserate whilst he slipped back down the stoop where an ancient ass bore a cart laden with two smoking corpses. To his dismay, he recognized them immediately. The old eggman's face had melted away, his grandson similarly disfigured beside him. Both lie still and silent, smoke still wafting off their bodies. Woozy at the sight, Frenkon steadied himself on the wall of the cart, then vomited onto the ground beside them. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he steadied himself with a deep breath; his nose filled with the smell of burnt flesh and he gagged again.
When he finally regained his composure, he seized the ass by the reins and led it around to the back of the manse. He tied her up to the ancient spruce tree that shaded his garden, hiding the cart in the basement for now. When he was done, fighting back tears, he took a moment to survey the horizon. He realized with dawning horror that the orange glow rising over the mountains was not the sun, but a great fire. Twisted Root lie beneath them, well removed from the dry evergreen trees, but the eggman's property was nestled up against the treeline. It would already be kindling.
Frenkon made his way back inside in a daze. The girl hadn't moved, Willow gently stroking Jada's hair and whispering sweet comforts in her ear. He fetched them a pair of handkerchiefs, and as Jada blew her nose, he took a seat across from her. His apprentice was dead and so was his best friend. It was all he could do not to break down and weep.
"It's my fault," the girl kept repeating. She was clutching her arms to her chest and rocking back and forth on the verge of a panic: "They're dead, they're all dead!"
"Calm yourself," Frenkon demanded, shaking from the effort of maintaining his own composure.
Jada took a few deep, shaky breaths, casting her gaze about as though looking for something. "Father," she loosed a horrendous curse, “I think I have made a mistake.”
"Language," the veck intoned. "You are in a House of God. What happened?"
"I need to get away – far away," she whispered.
"Where would you go?" Willow breathed, "You can come stay with me-"
"Father," Jada cleared a frog from her throat. "What happens when you go away without leave?"
"This is hardly the time-"
"Will they come looking for me like they did Jamus?"
"Not... necessarily." Frenkon frowned. The old eggman had been a swordsman, once, in the city, a generation before even his own time there. But that was before he made the folly of capturing the heart of a well-born woman. Her father, a baron, had had the escaped serf dragged back to the county of his birth, with a fresh brand on his arm to mark him apart. As Frenkon understood it, the daring young man had then escaped serfdom again, only for Lord Hackel's Thousand to come crashing down a year or two later, and then there had been nowhere left to flee. All through the land, folk toiled unfree, unable to leave the manors or villages of their birth. In fact, traveling beyond the borders of the manor one was born in without leave of one's lord was terribly illegal. "Why would you go anywhere? My child, you can stay here if you like -"
"No," she said grimly. "I can't."
That took him aback. "Why in the Red King's Abode would you think that?" More urgently now: "What happened?"
Jada opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, the bell tinkled again to herald the coming of a guest.
"Willow," Frenkon barked. Willow hesitated before nodding assent. She planted a kiss on Jada's forehead and hurried out the room to greet the newcomer.
"I cocked up," Jada whispered, looking down at her hands as if she had never noticed them before.
Willow called out from the entryway and Frenkon rose, stirred by the concern in her tone. He found her there hovering over the body of a great man with long blond hair and clad in fine black silks. This could only be the son of the margrave!
"Lord Eduard?" he gasped, falling to his knees by the man's side. Luckily, he was still breathing, clutching his side where a knife protruded. He screamed when they removed the blade, whimpered as they cleaned the wound, and moaned as they sewed him up. He was lucky, Frenkon reflected after they had him convalescing in a guest bed; the blade had missed his bowels and anything else vital. The knife dripped blood on the floor as he scaled the stairs to his solar, a horrible realization coalescing in his mind.
He found the girl on the couch, whispering to herself, but she felt silent at his approach.
"Explain yourself," he demanded of her, throwing the bloody dagger at her feet.
Her face set in a look of determination through the tears. As she began to speak, Frenkon's expression shifted, from awe to anguish to frank understanding. He began to pace, driving a little rut into the floor with his bare, hairy feet. Whatever had happened last night, he quickly came to accept a simple truth. A veck had the power to offer sanctuary, but he had no swords with which to enforce that, only the power of the gods. Somehow, he doubted that would stay the margrave's hand.
"You cannot stay here,” he admitted, though it pained him so. “You need to flee.”
/dʒejdə/
She was a fine beast, the snood. More than three feet tall she was, and probably 25 pounds of juicy meat hung from her strong bones. The great bird paced through the undergrowth of the evergreen forest, fleshy head bouncing with every step, and Jada crept a few yards behind, her sling at the ready. A snood that size could feed all three of them for three days if she could get a clear shot, a thought that made her smile hungrily.
It was a clear late-spring day, and it was hot. Sweat beaded up on her forehead as she crept along, and Jada was quite looking forward to a trip to the bathhouse when she returned to town. The baths were owned by the margrave, technically, as was everything else in this accursed village, and everything that surrounded it, for leagues. It was his world, she thought wryly. The folks just lived there.
A bird chirruped and Jada looked up to identify the source of the sound. Tocsins could be right annoying on a hunt, raising the alarm at the approach of a human and rousing everything for a half-mile around. Luckily, it was simply a pair of sparrows, jockeying for position on a branch. When she looked back, the snood had disappeared into the underbrush. "Ashes and cinders," Jada cursed quietly, and she sent an annoyed stone in the general direction of the sparrows, to scare them off. They flew away chittering angrily. Feeling better, she bent to identify the snood's path and set off in pursuit.
She had not gone far when she found the signpost, a little cross of wood set out in the wilderness, a warning scrawled upon it in bright red letters. She didn’t have to be able to read to know what it said. Keep Out! The Greedy Old Margrave Thinks He Needs All This Game For Himself! ...Or something to that effect. Of course the snood had gone wandering off onto the reserve. To pass that little signpost was to risk branding or worse. But then, they would have to actually catch her at it to brand her, wouldn’t they? And no one from the margrave’s house came up the mountain since the original margrave had died a few years ago. His old hunting cabin was all full of dust and crawlies. Who would ever know, let alone care, if she snagged one snood more?
It was an hour or so later when she caught sight of it again, its head down to drink from a clear mountain stream. She was so close to it now that she was frankly amazed she hadn’t spooked it at her incautious approach. Jada reached into her pocket and pulled out a smooth little stone, hand-picked from the shore of the lake that divided Twisted Root from the margrave’s manor. She loaded it into the pocket of her sling, twirled it about a handful of times, then let fly. The stone crossed the distance with a little whizzing sound, then connected with a satisfying pop, and suddenly there was a great hole where the snood’s eye had been. It fell limp into the water of the stream, and Jada let out a quiet noise of satisfaction.
The bird was so grand it barely fit into her old leather pack, and the weight of it was a mix of gratifying and backbreaking as she turned to make her way back down the mountain. She ambled into a little clearing, walking backward for a moment so she could stare up at the icy peaks that loomed over her head. She never got tired of the views, she thought with a wry smile. She was gazing up at the mountaintop, wondering how long it would take her to get up there, when her foot caught on something hard and she went careening to the ground.
Jada’s head spun for a moment, but she came back to herself quickly. It was important to keep your head on a swivel up in the mountains; some of the beasts up here could fight back. She leapt to her feet, frowning at the wetness of her rear, then looked down to see what she had tripped on. It seemed to be a big white brick, sitting at the edge of the clearing. A few others lie scattered about, and Jada realized after a moment that she was stood in the ruins of some ancient structure. Rubbing her sore ass, she turned one over to view the bugs and worms beneath. Whatever this building had been, it was very old, she thought sagely, to have crumbled away to ruin like it has.
The first few bricks she turned over had nothing but crawlies beneath, but one yielded a little handle, simply made, as if for a kitchen knife. Its make was mysterious; as she held it up to the light, it seemed to drink it in, and Jada took a long moment to study it there in the afternoon sun. It was too light to be metal, too smooth to be wood. All covered in mud it was, and whatever blade it had once borne had long since rusted away. She stowed it away in her pack absent-mindedly and continued exploring the ruin. She didn’t find anything else particularly interesting after some half-hour of turning over bricks, and the wind smelled of smoke from a distant wildfire, so she elected to head home. It hadn’t rained in near on a month after all, and it wouldn’t do to get caught out in the fire.
As she passed the little signpost, Jada reached out to tap it with her hand, for good luck. It smarted, and she pulled back to see a large splinter embedded in her finger. Jada cursed wickedly, suckling on the finger to ease the pain, but it still ached horribly by the time she made it to town. Both moons were well out by then, and the stars were shining and twinkling at her as she made her way through the evening chill. They cast the world in a ghostly set, everything glowing bluish-white or swathed in darkness.
Twisted Root was a quiet little town at the end of the world. It lie at a crossroads, but it was not on any main lines of trade or travel. Folk there were mean and hardscrabble and they had to work for all the ground gave them. But Jada had been made to understand from an early age that there was no shame in a humble existence. Her grandfather had drilled the concept into her, and Grandma as well, but she had passed on to the Red King’s Abode when Jada was still fairly young and so her memories of her took on a more fuzzy, nostalgic quality. Since her uncle Jeram had also died, they had been three in the house: Her, her cousin Jon, and her grandfather, Jamus. She had never had a mother or father to speak of, and her grandfather was never one to elaborate, so she just assumed they had died when she was very young and swallowed her curiosity.
Near the center of town was a tremendous wood pole, nearly thirty feet tall, overlooking the quiet of the evening. All hung with great colorful ribbons it was, fastened to its tip and to the ground, so that they formed a great circle of festive joy. A pair of surly-looking men stood guard over it, rotating out every few hours so another could take his place. The Springpole was erected after the last snow each year and stood until midsummer – or until it was stolen by someone from a nearby village. They had only made off with it once, in Jada's lifetime – but the theft had been rewarded with a huge party and the thieves had been showered with beer and sweets just for returning the thing. How queer, she remembered thinking. Normally thieves were just hanged.
Just outside of town was a little cluster of three buildings on a hill that smelled strongly of too-old meat and fresh leather. Down this way lie the home of Giles, the Tanner, who made most of the leather on the march; Winton, the crusty old butcher, maintained the house next to the tannery and leered at Jada as she marched past; finally there sat the knackery, where Carlo the Knacker lived with his two children. The knackery was a modest little shack with an attached yard, piled high with bleached bones and weathered hides. Various jars were strewn about the yard at random, full of lard or tallow or glue or some other product of that nasty work.
"Jada!" called a broad, black-haired lad from the doorway. Milo smiled broadly at her approach, bowing deeply and seizing her hand the moment she came into reach. He planted a wet kiss on the back of her hand and she pulled away with not a little irritation. Milo was a nice lad, but she much preferred the company of the sister. Still, he was a good knacker. "Good hunting?"
"Behold," Jada declared dramatically, opening her pack to display the carcass inside.
Milo whistled with appreciation. "Goodness, that thing looks heavy! Your legs must be sore."
Jada nodded, feeling the well-earned ache in her calves. She had probably walked six or seven leagues between the way up the mountain and the way down, and she was frankly exhausted. And smelly, and sticky. It was a good thing that Milo was nearly noseblind. But then, he had to, being the son of the knacker. He brought her inside then down the stairs. When they were situated, he pulled the snood out and set it on the long work table in the basement of the knackery.
"Where'd you find this thing?" Milo asked as he set to plucking the feathers from the carcass.
"Up on the mountain," Jada answered evasively.
"Did you go past the signpost?"
"No," Jada lied.
Milo's eyes widened, "Dang, a snood this juicy just wandered off the reserve?" He shook his head disbelievingly. "Good eye, my dear." He set to studying one of the feathers, "Do you think the veck needs any new quills?"
"Take them, please." Jada had no use for the feathers, but the rest of the bird would be useful. The meat would be easy, and the feet would be pickled for later, the skin turned to cracklings, the fat reused to oil their pans; the liver would make a nice mash. After it was rinsed free of grit, the gizzard would make a fine snack, and the bones would be ground up and fed to their own birds so they could lay stronger eggs. The rest of the offal would likely go that way as well. Nothing went to waste and everything had its uses. Sometimes it was good to be friends with the knacker's son.
"Where's Willow at?" Jada asked when there was no sign of her.
Milo shrugged, "Check the manse. You know how she gets."
"Her and her books," Jada smiled. "She trying to be a veck?"
Milo laughed a bit too hard at that. His face turned all pink and he was wiping his eye as he replied, "A woman veck! Ain't that just an idea!"
A little while later, his job complete and the snood rendered nude, Milo led her back up to the main level. They stepped around the knacker himself, asleep on the floor from too much drink. "Will you stay for dinner?" Milo asked her quietly. "We have a couple coneys in that trap you built and-"
"No, thank you." Jada said firmly.
"Well alright," Milo said, failing to hide his disappointment. A beat passed in awkward silence. Then: "Are you excited for the Triskedalia?"
Jada pondered for a moment. The Triskedalia came every year and every year was a bit different to the last. All the village and even a few neighboring towns come out and had a great party, and there was drink and food and dancing to excess. All the boys of age became men officially, and the girls became women, and the veck gave a boring speech as he baptized them with oil and ash, then everyone went and worked off all their pent-up energy from a winter stuck indoors. Folk announced betrothals and presented babes who had made it through the winter with protective pride. It was all a great festivity.
"I suppose," she said. "I always enjoy the dancing."
Milo shook his head as if she were a fool, "Yes, but it's our Triskedalia! Everything will be different after the baptism! Then you and I can…"
"We'll be the same as we are now," Jada retorted, "just a few days older."
The night was cool and clear as Jada made her way back home. Before she knew it, the moons were high in the sky, both full or nearly so. On nights like this one you could see clear as day. As she left the town behind and headed back to the tree line, a familiar old cabin rose up on the horizon to greet her. Fashioned from logs on a foundation of fieldstones, the farmhouse was ringed by an ancient wood fence, just high enough to keep the animals in and the monitors out, though it was better at one than the other. She was over it in a flash, but her bag caught on the fence and she sprawled breathlessly into the dirt. She failed to greet the yardbird as it ambled over to meet her, so it bugled a warning that echoed off the mountains and rang in her ears. A moment later, a door to the farmhouse flew open and a white-haired man came out brandishing a knife. His posture relaxed a moment later when he recognized her.
"Jada," he grunted.
"Hello, Gramps," Jada replied. Still lying in the dirt, she held up her pack, opening it to show the naked snood. "I brought home dinner."
"Lovely," he replied unsmilingly. "Where'd you bag that?"
"Up on the mountain."
"Did you go onto the reserve?"
Jada looked away from him, "I found it well before then." That much was true, at least.
"Good," he grunted. His thick white mustache twitched a bit as he reached down to help her up. He was a severe-looking man, his hair still thick on his head despite having gone to white, his brown eyes sharp despite having near on seventy-and-five years. A prominent scar ran along the left side of his face, from above his brow and over his eye down across his cheek and ending below his lip. Once, Jada had even got him to share the story of how he acquired it – as a young man, in the city, in a duel. He had been so very proud. And very drunk. He had been more reticent to explain the origin of the well-faded scar on his right forearm, left by a branding iron some decades hence.
Once she was on her feet, he reached over and scratched the yardbird on the beak, then ambled back inside. Jada followed a few steps behind. Inside the cabin that her grandfather's grandfather had built, there was only one big room, all arranged around a big wood-fired stove that kept them alive in the winter – though the cabin was so drafty that it whistled on windy nights. This was one such night, the whole house creaking and settling as the wind howled outside.
Jada settled into the stove, setting the snood to roasting and humming contentedly as she did. It filled the whole house with a pleasant roasty aroma, and her mouth watered as she realized how hungry she truly was. She had had trail snacks whilst out and about, but she had been out walking all day, a good portion of it with the weight of the snood on her back. She was light-headed by the time she and the old geezer tucked in to their dinner, but the old man still made her wait whilst he said a little prayer. The bird was gamy, but still delicious on her famished tongue. They ate their fill then set the rest of the flesh out in the smokehouse to preserve it. When that was done, Jada set to crushing the bones into meal for the birds.
"Jon should be home tomorrow," her grandfather grunted as she worked.
"Oh," replied Jada. She rather enjoyed her cousin's extended absences from the old homestead. He could be severe at the best of times, and a judgmental prick at the worst. She hoped he would stay at the Manse forever, learning all the veck could teach him, never bothering her back at home. She could do without the fanatic reminding her of some sin she had committed, some inadequacy she possessed, or some mistake she had made. "When do you think he will take the Orange?"
Jamus shrugged. "When the veck decides he's ready, I suppose."
"And when will that be?"
"Ask the veck!" Jamus barked. "He'll want to see you before the Triskedalia, at any rate."
Jada's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What for?"
"Gods, Jada. I don't know. Mayhap the fact that you ain't got no papa to give you away."
"Oh," Jada said. Quietly, she continued: "I figured you would do it."
"Not my place," grunted the old man. "You'll understand after you speak to the veck."
"Oh," Jada repeated softly. She excused herself to dump the bone meal into the eggbirds' feed trough, nursing the wound that his words had opened in her heart.
/wɪlow/
She came home late that night, as she often did. The light of the moons made it easy to find her way, and there were few folk out at this time of night, so she avoided the dirty looks the villagers liked to shoot at her. No one got too close to the child of the knacker: that whole house was unclean. After all, that was why they shunted them off to the edge of town with all the other sources of Contamination. Few were the folk who could look past her father's profession.
She wondered what Jada was doing, as she often did. The flame-haired firebrand had never been one to hang about the manse and consult the veck for sagely advice. She was more like to go and do something stupid and reckless and daring. Willow thought of her curly red hair as she trekked down the hill from the manse, picturing those big green eyes as she sneaked into the knackery, creeping around the still body of her father. He had got stumbling drunk, as he often did, passing out where the drink overcame him. Willow thought of Jada's laugh as she gathered greens from the garden, fixing herself a little salad for dinner. She counted the freckles on her nose whilst she stripped and changed into her bedclothes. She heard Milo snoring from their father's cot, so as she climbed into her own on the other side of the bedchamber, she thought of Jada's strong shoulders and her deft hands and wondered what was under her tunic, whilst Willow herself did something that would have made her father very ashamed indeed. That shame rubbed off when she was finished, and afterward she cried for a whole lot of different reasons. In the end, she cried herself to sleep, as she often did.
Willow had dreams, but she never remembered them. They must have been bad ones, though, for she awoke to Milo shaking her profusely. "It's all right!" he was shouting, but it didn't feel all right and the worry on his face told her that she had been shrieking again. The terrors left her gasping and exhausted, but never frightened, funnily enough. She apologized sheepishly, looking about for Ma and Pa, realizing after a moment that Ma was dead and Pa was still snoring.
As she set out, the morning was muggy and buggy and she worked up a sweat even moving slowly. She had thrown on one of Pa's old tunics, hanging down below her knees, and a thin hooded cloak clasped around her neck. Her thin sandals flapped against her feet as she walked. She made her way to the manse, her thoughts turning to her late mother, as they often did. Karin had been slight like her, with long, straight black hair like hers and the same blue eyes. Willow remembered the way she laughed, great shouts of mirth that would echo off the walls of their little house. It had never felt right without her, and though it had been years now and Willow could barely remember what her face had looked like, she still remembered how her mother had made her feel. She missed her every day.
She hated the way that folks looked at her as she made her way across town. The womenfolk bored holes in her head with their gazes, whilst the menfolk wouldn't even meet her eye, staring instead at other parts that made her feel unclean. Despite the heat, she pulled her cloak about her and covered her head with her hood. It was sweltering, but it stopped the dirty looks, so it was worth it.
Twisted Root was a mean town. Folk were hardscrabble and the land made them earn all it gave them. Summers were brief and humid, winters long and oppressive. Every Triskedalia saw fewer dancers around the Springpole. Some ran off to Talihl or south to Old Neyer. A few went to serve in the big house that the margrave kept across the lake; they simply lacked leave to return. Many died; some of frost, some of famine, some of fever or pox… Some just didn't wake up one morning. Some bashed their heads open on rocks after they were thrown from horseback. So it goes, she thought. However they make their exit, everyone dies in the end.
Her mind was all full of grim thoughts such as these as the manse came into view up on its hilltop perch. Where the rest of the town was thrown together from fieldstones and logs, the manse was made from fine, creamy stone, flanked by white columns and sporting a great inscribed black door that, blessedly, was always unlocked. A little bell tinkled as she pushed her way through. The manse was at once grand and simple inside, the big door opening on the great hall, where dozens of rows of pews gathered around a modest stage with a stone lectern. The ceiling bore ancient scenes of angelic battle, a bit faded by some three decades of sunlight. The air in the manse remained a constant temperature throughout summer and winter, and its grand stained-glass windows cast brilliant strands of light over the whole hall.
The manse was Willow's favorite place in the whole world. Whenever things were rough at home, when Milo was being annoying or her father was in one of his rages, she sought refuge here, with the great orange priest. She came every sabbath, of course, as faith to all three Gods demanded, but she could also be found there most other days, partaking in the veck's kindness – and his books.
The veck maintained a library unlike anything Willow had ever seen. He had texts on every subject, ranging from the life and history of the three Gods as well as just about every saint and informative tomes about anatomy and geography and even a few about animals and plants. But her favorite by far were the stories. Stories of battles, stories of adventure, stories of love. She had probably read every story in the library twice over, and she never tired of their yellowed pages.
She called out for the old holy man, but it was not the veck who replied.
"Good morrow, Willow," came a high, reedy voice from up the stairs.
"Good morrow, Jon!" Willow called back, smiling.
He appeared a moment later, the tall, gaunt youth with messy brown hair and a crooked nose, beckoning her to join him in the solar. She dashed into the kitchen to grab a piece of yesterday's bread, then bounded up the stairs after the acolyte. Jon was a curmudgeon, but he never made her feel dirty, at least.
She found him in front of a pile of books, as he often was. The whole solar was lined wall-to-wall with great bookshelves, a library worthy of a lord hidden away at the end of the world. "What are you reading?" she asked as she plopped down on a little cushion by the bookshelf.
"It is nearly St. Errol's day," Jon sniffed.
"St. Errol, of course," she nodded knowingly.
"He was a warrior in the Second Angelic War," Jon said matter-of-factly. "A crusader. And a martyr."
"How can he be a saint and a soldier?" Willow asked.
"Lots of saints were soldiers," he replied. "Being a saint just means you were a good and godly person who gave their life – or death – in the service of the Gods."
"Right, but what's so godly about killin' folks?"
"Don't be naive," Jon asserted. "To serve a cause greater than yourself, you have to make sacrifices. It's about duty and tradition and faith. There's beauty in that."
"I guess," Willow sighed. "How is your cousin?"
"Same as ever, I suppose," grunted Jon. "She's impious, disrespectful, and shrill."
"Jada is not shrill," Willow insisted, frowning.
"Fine, fine," he held up a hand. "I take it back, don't come for me." He pointed to a page in front of him. "Look here, it says that St. Errol was born on the same calendar day that he died. A perfectly cyclical life – as it should be."
"Are we celebrating his birth or his death?"
"His life!" snapped Jon, not appreciating her humor at all. He never did.
"Where is the veck?" she asked after a long pause.
"Out," grunted the acolyte, burying his face in his book.
"When will he be back?"
"Later."
"Do you think he would mind-"
"You know that he would not," Jon grumbled. "You have free reign of the manse. Just put things back where you find them."
Willow nodded, gratitude bursting up in her chest. She settled in on the other side of the room from Jon and set to reading a medical textbook, studying the intricacies of the human body. It was engrossing stuff, an in-depth examination of the various systems that made up the machine that was a person. From the bones to the muscles to the nerves and the vessels that the blood ran through. It seemed like the vecks knew everything, Willow thought. They had a book for every topic. The tome was reassuringly heavy on her lap, though some of the subject matter was anything but, with in-depth descriptions of how quickly a wound can become contaminated and the extreme consequences of such a turn of events. Not a little queasy, Willow closed the book and looked about.
Jon was still reading about his new favorite martyr, so she selected a new book, this one a biography of the Good Old King himself. It was always thrilling to read about the man who had conquered the world. Sometimes Willow could hardly believe that in the world her grandfather had lived in, the Four Crowns had been separate, ruled by different men, often at war with one another. Now there had been three decades of peace, and all was well – or so all the books always said.
When she was done, Willow looked around and saw Jon still engrossed. She could not help but feel a bit of jealousy for the lad, though she wasn't entirely sure why.
"How did you come to serve the veck, Jon?"
"I started much as you are," he stroked his chin pensively. "I followed him around until he missed me when I wasn't there."
"Do you think he would take on another apprentice?"
"Perhaps, if one should present himself." He paused for a moment, "Willow, you don't mean-"
"I would be a good acolyte! I read better than anyone in the village. I'm a good and godly girl, and-"
"A godly woman knows her place," Jon said firmly. "I am not doing all this for a larf, you know. I intend to take the Orange!"
"I know that," Willow said quietly. "You'll be a fine veck someday." That seemed to mollify him, so she worked up all her courage and continued: "And so would I."
"You?!" Jon scoffed. "Willow, you're smart enough to know how foolish this is. No woman can ever be a veck, it is canon law!"
"Why not?!" Willow stamped her feet. "It's not fair!"
"Fair?! It's two thousand years of tradition! Fair!" He shook his head, regarding her with pity in his eye. "This is my lot and that is yours, and if that is not so, let the great Father in the Sky strike me down." The room echoed with the finality of the declaration.
Willow was so frustrated she could barely speak, but she was not surprised. This had been exactly the answer she anticipated – and feared. The bell by the door went a-tinkling just as she opened her mouth to reply, "The veck won't-"
"The veck will hear none of this nonsense!" Jon shouted, "Or I will see to it that you never set foot in this solar again!" He rose and loomed over her. "Avail yourself of the books," he said with a bit less edge to his voice, "but forget your senseless dreams."
With that, the acolyte disappeared down the stairs to go greet their guest, and Willow let herself cry, as she often did.
/ɛdwɚd/
"Do not look away," his father growled as they came up to the gallows. The Margrave looked powerful in his black-and-silver finery, though he was sweaty from the heat of the late spring day. He was a large man, tall and broad and heavy besides, with a frock of blond hair that was thinning a bit at the crown and a blond mustache that was almost invisible on his pale lip. His horse was fat and cantered slowly as they approached, Ed's own plainstrider easily keeping apace. Swiftwind seemed almost bored at their slow tempo, but there was no rush. The dead man was not going anywhere.
The condemned was a mousy-looking brown man with big, scared eyes. Ed tried his best to do as father bade, but he could not maintain eye contact as the man looked to them with entreaty. He was a thief, an outlaw, Ed reminded himself. He had violated their own home, stolen their fine pewter cutlery to sell to the smith. As such, there had even been a witness, though it was not necessary to condemn a thief under the laws of the Southern March. It was only a good thing the Smith was an honest man. They would have to send him some token of thanks, Ed thought.
The knackerman stood by the lever, ready for the margrave's signal to drop the thief to his death. Well, technically, Ed was not supposed to know the identity of the black-hooded executioner, but everyone knew that the knacker was the one traditionally designated to handle such nasty matters. The man dealt with the dead every day; it was only natural. And they had paid well for his services, having purchased his contract from a neighbor some seven or eight years past. No less than Ed's own grandfather had come out to welcome them. He had been such a great man, Ed thought sniffily. Grandsire would not have flinched before death, the future margrave reminded himself. The man had been an able dealer.
They took up their customary position in the stands that had been erected for the hanging. A dozen or so folks from the nearby towns had come out to watch the man die. It was all terribly macabre, Ed thought, to make a spectacle of the thing. They could at least give the man the dignity of dying in private. But that was not how his father preferred to do things. "Let them see the consequences of their actions," he had said gruffly when Ed had broached the subject to him, after the previous hanging, a few months hence. "Let any thief or killer or runaway or other outlaw know that they shan't escape the noose of justice."
It only took a moment. Ed's father whispered another stern admonition into his ear, then nodded to the knackerman, who pulled the lever. The little trapdoor in the gallows opened, and the condemned man fell through so only his head and shoulders were visible. Mercifully, he did not struggle. The last fellow had not fallen hard enough to break his neck, and instead had wriggled horribly whilst he turned purple and blue before finally expiring. This one went quickly, and Ed did not look away as the life left his eyes. He had been so afraid before he died. It must have been horrible.
"The nerve of that criminal, to steal from us," his father ranted as they made their way slowly back to the big house. Ed just nodded, feeling the breeze on the back of his neck. It was a clear spring day, not a cloud in the sky, and it was hot. At least the man had got to die on a pretty day, Ed thought grimly. That had been a kindness from the gods. The Skyfather was said to send the weather, and was the god of justice and war among other severe domains. The Earth Mother was the goddess of mercy (and a dozen other feminine things besides). But the Red King was the god of Death and the one to whom one's soul went when they died. Which god had the dead man prayed to, before he passed on?
"It was very foolish, indeed," Ed said.
Hackel Hold lie atop a grand tree-lined hill, overlooking the towns it owned like a watchful angel. In the west lie Leadtown, where a thousand or so mean folk mined the pewter for the house's fine fixtures. To the east was Appelwood, where the finest lumber in all the country was harvested from a forest older than the Angels themselves. The Hold backed up to a clear montane lake, mayhap half a mile across, beyond which sat Twisted Root – a little town full of craftsmen who plied their wares to travelers and one another. Here in the Southern March, the soil was rocky and the climate was cold (though they were quite far south, the altitude rendered the growing of anything beyond subsistence quite treacherous). The old margrave, Ed's grandfather, had conquered the march to keep the warlords who used to inhabit it from troubling the newly-unified kingdom, not because it held some great riches. Yet that the folk there were mean and meager and the town was poor annoyed the old margrave's son very much.
The house itself was grand, organized into two wings arranged around a central atrium. Three floors it had, and each wing its own team of servants to manage their affairs. Now that Ed was a man in his own right, he had taken up the east wing for himself. He and father stabled their mounts and then parted ways, Father going to bathe and take his dinner in his solar. Ed found himself without an appetite, given the events of the day, so he went and found Timofey instead.
The sword master was a grizzled old chap who had served his family since before his grandfather, the original margrave, had even been ennobled. He was near as tall as Ed himself, with a clean-shaven head and a mustache that, despite his age, was still thick and black. His black eyes crinkled up warmly when he saw Ed striding up to him, though Ed could not manage to return his smile. Still, he was glad to see him. Timofey had accomplished more feats of martial prowess in his life than most men could dream of, yet when the Good Old King offered him a county of his own, he declined, choosing instead to continue serving at the side of Ed's grandfather. He may not have been a count, but Timofey was a good man, and Ed was glad to see him.
"Good afternoon, Lord Eduard," he greeted Ed with a salute, which Ed mirrored. The sword master cocked a brow at him, "What's troubling you?"
Ed hesitated, but Timofey was trustworthy. "It's this whole macabre business of the hanging."
Timofey frowned, "Aye, it's a black day when the hangman has to be called out."
"Such a foolish thing," Ed remarked, "to steal from your liege lord. They always get caught."
"Aye," the sword master nodded, "foolish indeed. But desperation will drive a man to do many a foolish thing."
Ed cocked a brow, "How do you mean desperation?" Ed gestured to the big house, "He lived here in luxury!"
Timofey sighed, "Aye, milord, but a man can do many things he wouldn't otherwise if he's forced into it by circumstance. Are you a murderer?"
"No!" Ed said with not a little indignation.
"Of course not. But could you be, if it was a choice between that and dying yourself?" He shook his bald head, "Many a man can become a killer if the other choice is becoming a corpse."
"But it was his choice to become a thief that killed him!" Ed insisted. "If he were so desperate, why did he not come to father with his problems and ask for help?"
The old sword master laughed full in his face. "You overestimate your lord father's generosity, sir."
Ed furrowed his brow. "Did you know this man?"
"Not well, no," Timofey shrugged. "But I know what drives a man to steal: hunger, milord. Or circumstance. Mayhap he owed someone a debt and had to steal to repay it."
"Or mayhap he was born a thief."
"Mayhap he was," Timofey remarked, "should he have been branded as a babe?"
"A babe is innocent!"
"We all are, until we aren't." Timofey scratched his chin, "War makes criminals out of good men and good men out of criminals. I've done things I'm not proud of. You surely have as well."
"Well it's a good thing there aren't wars anymore," Ed said smilingly. "You and Grandsire saw to that, eh?"
That got a smile out of him. That was good. "Just remember," Timofey concluded, "a cornered animal will bite, even if it's normally tame."
Ed was pondering his words later in the evening as he took his dinner with the men. Father might prefer to take his meals alone in his solar, but Ed liked to be down at the table with the servants. He liked to hear the chatter and feel the warmth of the hearth. Timofey had a good heart, but he was too optimistic, Ed decided. Some folk were born nasty, and they only got worse as they grew up. Just like some men were born great and only grew grander, like grandsire had, or the Good Old King, the man who had conquered all the known world. But most men were just men. And he was grateful for the men of the house as he sat there among them.
Marco, the stablemaster, with his sandy brown hair and freckles, was deep in conversation with Nico, the squat black-haired valet. Hugo, the steward, was going over a ledger whilst he chewed a piece of black bread spread with butter. Two cooks were rolling dice, and one of the sharnies had a girl in his lap and was currently occupied with her. At the other table sat the serving girls and women, a few of them pretty, most unremarkable. One of the unremarkable ones was trying to catch his eye. Ed made a point of looking away. Father had taught him that fraternization with the women staff was strictly off-limits, after all. Though Ed would not have minded if his sire had given him a few half-blood siblings to associate with.
Ed had always wanted a sibling. All his cousins had brothers or sisters to share the pains of growing up with, but not Eduard Evandros. His had been a difficult labor, and his mother had never truly recovered, it was said. She lingered a few years more, but died before he could have any strong memories of her. In her place, there had been a series of women to run his father's house. There was Esther, of course, and before her Ramona and another before her, her name had started with a K. But, for all his faults, Ed's sire had never been the type to sow his seeds widely. So Ed had grown up alone. It had not been so bad. After he had been breeched, he had always had Swiftwind. But he thought he would have been a fine brother, had he got the chance.
The following day, Ed was not long in waking when his father summoned him to his solar for his regular lessons. Though Ed was now a grown man, father insisted that the instruction required for a future Margrave was a lifelong endeavor. They spent a good part of the morning drilling on troop movements and formations of battle, all of which Ed thought rather superfluous since there hadn't been any wars in a generation and there were not like to be any new ones any time soon. But the point of the margrave was, after all, to man the southern frontier with good and able defenses in case the Murtezcan menace should ever rear its head again. So he bent to his studies with as much vigor as he could manage.
He was less excited by the demographic lessons. The Margrave was utterly convinced that his stock was an inferior one, and he was, as usual, explaining his theories about the situation to Ed.
"The Murtezcan peasant is of a fine stock," Evander pointed to the great peninsula on the huge map that took up half of the wall of his solar. "Tall and broad and strong besides. They say the lands down south produce twice what we do. Do you know why that is?"
Eduard shook his head, but his father was still going. "A better horse can go twice as far; a better bird can go twice as fast; and a better peasant can go twice as hard."
Ed cocked his brow, watching a choppy little wave form up and crash on the shore of the lake through the window whilst his father explained the relative cranial sizes of peasants across the country. One such fellow stared at him from across the chamber, skeletal form hanging from a little stand. Myles had been purchased from some Murtezcan trader. Tall and broad, his skeleton mounted after the man had passed away so that the margrave could study his anatomy more closely. He seemed equally engrossed in the lecture to Eduard himself.
"The lands of Count Arudeen are a quarter the size of mine own," his father intoned, "yet they produce twice the goods we do. The only explanation is that the serfs suffer some sort of malaise. Something must be done about it!" He pounded his fist into the palm of his hand to emphasize his dissatisfaction.
Ed resisted the urge to roll his eyes; oh, did he resist. But this pack broke the horse's back and, despite himself, a little groan of frustration escaped his lips. His father's rotund face was creased by a frown that curled his great blond mustache into a crescent.
"Our stock is the wealth of our House," he stomped over to the hearth, where a tawny speckled dog lie peacefully on a bearskin rug. He seized the dog by the haunches and held her up in front of him. "A genuine, purebred Hackel Hound has certain, specific dimensions. Their coat is speckled and two or three colors, never solid. Their paws are sturdy enough to hold their own against a plainstrider, and their jaws can restrain a grown man with ease." He released the hound, who settled back on the opposite side of the room to him, whimpering gently. "The health of that stock is the very underpinning of our power!"
"Funny, I thought it was our lands and men."
"Don't be smart, boy – you're no good at it." When Ed was feeling good and low, his lord father continued: "Our lands are worked by scrawny, lazy ne'er-do-wells who would just as soon lay about as toil." He stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "We must get to the root of this malaise. So long as it remains, they will continue degenerating until there is nothing left. Which is why I need you to investigate the source of the matter."
Alas, when the big margrave wanted something, he got it, and rare was the occasion that he allowed himself to be talked down. So that afternoon found Eduard donning his travel gear and preparing for a little outing. He found Bear, the dog that his father had handled so roughly, scratching her behind the ears on his way to the stable. The great dog followed him all the way there to ask for more; he obliged her with a little grin pulling at his lips.
The stable was all full of horses, but one large stall at the end held what he sought: his fine piebald plainstrider stood proudly, surrounded by attendants, her great muscular legs tapering into blunted claws that splayed in the mud. The men tacked and saddled the great bird and the head of the stable himself handed over the reins. As he led her out of the stall, she obeyed his every command, following along at the gentlest of tugs on her bridle. When he went to mount her, she instinctively dropped to the ground where she could be straddled.
"Why can't I find a woman like you?" Ed chuckled as the great bird lifted him off his feet. He called her Swiftwind, for when he aimed the strider in a direction, she did not canter or trot, she practically flew. She took him across the grounds in a flash, Bear barking and chasing after them but quickly being left behind. Nimbly, she leapt over the little wood palisade, wending her way down the hill and toward the town. She coursed down the hill like flowing water; when he leaned forward she broke into an all-out sprint, and when he leaned back she slowed to a trot, but he could feel the energy bursting out of her, barely contained by her discipline and training. If he let her, she would sprint til she keeled over and collapsed. A less skilled rider would have been thrown from the saddle, but Ed and Swifty had been riding together for half a decade now. Nevertheless, he kept his ass firm and his knees tucked all the way until he arrived in town.
Leadtown was a mean little town full of mean little folks. They were scrawny layabouts, prone to madness if they spent too long in the mines and listlessness if they spent too little. These were exactly the sort of folks father was talking about, Ed realized as he surveyed them on high. He rode away without speaking to any of them whilst the sun was still high in the sky.
It was a hot day and his fine silks were sweltering, the late spring sun rivaled in perversity only by the bugs. The bird didn't seem to mind, for she showed no sign of slowing as he raced off to his next destination. Appelwood was an ugly town, too, but its folk were hale and hearty compared to those of Leadtown. Whatever malaise had infected them had not yet spread; that was good, at least.
Father had a point, but he had only half the picture. In Leadtown the peasants had well and truly degenerated, but the others were of a healthier stock. They moved with vigor and their bones were strong. He would just need to show his father an example of a finely-made serf.
One leapt to mind immediately: a fire-haired girl who lived in Twisted Root, faithfully minding his father's eggbirds. She had first caught his eye the previous summer when he came to collect their fee. She had sat in the corner the whole time, faithfully mending some old tunic with a needle and thread. A diligent woman like that, who kept her head down and did as she was told – now that would be a fine example to set for the rest. Ed steered the bird toward the little town at the crossroads with a smug smile fixed on his face.
He reached the dead tree around dusk, his stomach beginning to grumble just as the bird started showing signs of fatigue. As he was getting tired himself, he resolved that rather than trekking all the way back to the Hold, he would simply stay in town that night. So he did something he hadn't done in some time: He went to church.