Chapter 2

5 Noel 1061

Bastion recalled the exchange with his father differently.

The bailey teemed with people. Stalls lined the perimeter, some were no more than carts, others were elaborately constructed with interiors and walls of flowing curtains of cloth. Each there to share gifts from the Dux to his esteemed guests. Each with a different gift. Each gift told a story, a different story, about Fael. Smoked sturgeon, split oysters, idols carved from the rare trewqs blued (blood tree) wood -- a rich, dark crimson wood -- loaves of sour dough bread, and much more.

Bastion and his wife Kathe found the bailey dusted by snow. A slow, soft, gentle snow. It was an early snowfall, a month ahead of the usual winter.

He led her into the midst of the activity. The crowds parted naturally, effortlessly, like a big fish among a school of minnows. They stood in the center of the bailey, heads cocked back, staring up at the curtain of falling snow. “When Tuelal is a new moon, I worry,” began Bastion. “The new moon is a portal for the dark gods behind this mirage. Through it they can reach through and touch us. Don’t laugh, I’ve read about this. Yet a snow like this, you see, this is a good omen! A curtain of white to hide from the darkness”

Kathe listened silently. She was a few years older. She remembered what it was like to be his age. She remembered how it felt to have ideas about the world, and the desire to share them with someone and hear their agreement. She didn't share Bastion's interests, so she just listened.

He squeezed her hand. “Each flake is a bit of heaven trapped in cold little crystals, the cold tears of Ilsa.” Bastion was giddy with excitement. He didn’t know his father watched from the portico.

Bastion carried on unaware. “I have found that book I told you about. Actually, Raban found it. If it contains what I think it does, I’ll know how Larynisis governed. His reign was one of peace. That's what we most need now --” Bastion was interupted by his father.

“A man learns from looking into the eyes of others, not from the scratchings of bent old men wielding a reed over wax. Don’t give me that dopey expression. You disagree? Do you? Then get mad. I want to see that. Try it for a change. Go on. Let’s see blood move in your veins.” Naeldric stepped forward, into Bastion, and forced him to step back. Bastion raised his hands as a guard or a yielding.

Naeldric swatted his hands down. “Where’s the warrior in you? Huh?” Naeldric’s big eyes were wide. His spoke in a forceful tone. “Where? You think battles are fought in here!” He tapped hard on Bastions temple with a stiffed finger. Then abruptly, he turned and walked off. He said one last thing, and loud enough that no one could miss it, "You are a heartbeat from the throne!"

Prins Bastion decided he wouldn't sit at his father's table that night. He told himself he wanted a break from his duties. For for days he suffered through the attention paid to the Dux’s table. Dozens of eyes fixed upon him, dozens more that glanced frequently, searchingly. Every time he rose, eager dignitaries intercepted him with subtle supplications and pliant praise. Bastion saw through it. He recognized the polite yet undignified attempts to ply his father’s secrets from his lips. He’d brush them off then the persistent would raise the stakes. Gifts offered, insinuations of pleasures, references to riches. Bastion tired of the role. He found it inefficient and galling. He had complained to his wife, “They’ve lost the point and only care about the profit.” Kathe listened and nodded and Bastion felt like she agreed inasmuch as a Princis from the hills could. But the way she regarded him, he felt exposed. Like she saw his real motivation, his real disgust, was his father.

Bastion decided to inform Lothar instead of telling his father directly. He found him in the Waes Langhaus (Great White Hall) finalizing preparations for the last Noel feast. Lothar greeted him and then paused, his large head titled to the side, "You look as if something bothering you."

Servants and maids swam about them, hurriedly working to ready the hall. There was a hum about. Someone passed by close to Lothar, didn't quite brush him, but close enough that they begged his pardon. He smiled sarcastically as a warning. "Go on, tell me what is weighing on that princely mind of yours."

"I want to sit at one of the lower tables tonight." Bastion found Lothar insincere, calculating, and he saw that something was at work behind his eyes. He regretted he chose to speak with Lothar, but it was preferable to telling his dad directly.

Lothar smiled warmly. "Is it your father?"

Bastion shook his head and mocked surprise. "You're implying what?"

Lothar: his placid expression, his neatly pleated tunic, his prim scarf, embroidered with silver and gold, all seemed to stare blankly back at Bastion as if nothing he said had been heard and he was still waiting for something of substance to be said.

Bastion assumed his father had already told Lothar of their exchange in the bailey. And he imagined the slanted version Lothar received. He felt compelled to give his side. "He lectured me." Bastion started with a brief account of the exchange. Lothar listened patiently, quietly. He never prodded or asked questions. He allowed Bastion to speak, and Bastion kept on speaking until he told it all. "He doesn't respect me, Lothar. I need distance from him.” Bastion rolled his eyes at himself, “I sound like a child.”

“You sound like a prins. Your father wishes you to sound like a Dux. He has a surprise planned for tonight, so long as you don’t distract from that, he won't notice if you sat in the stables. But my dear prins, remember you are his heir.” Lothar straightened Bastion’s cloak, his shirt. “And as his heir, he wishes to shape you to suit the rule he requires. Your duty is but to be shaped.”

“And what shape does he want?”

“Something quite a bit steelier than this,” Lothar said with a mocking smile. “Pick your table carefully. Everything you do is read like a message. Better to write your own messages than leave it up to others to write them for you.”

"I hoped to sit with Raban." Bastion said it and waited to see if Lothar would approve.

"That's a safe choice. You know how your father loves Raban, even admires him. However," Lothar had a twinkle to his eye, "If you want to send him a message, sit with the Neeklow delegation. He wouldn't be able to condemn the choice openly. He'd be bound my propriety to sit there and stew on it the whole evening."

Bastion laughed out of surprise. "I don't think I'm that steely. I'll sit with Raban."

Naeldric had found great success as a general. He’d led Fael to eighteen straight military victories. He negotiated shrewdly after each one. He had to. Peace won at the point of his spear evaporated quickly without strong impediments to taking up arms again. Men as small as Naeldric weren’t fit for front lines, so he commanded from the rear where his genius shined. Bastion concluded that genius alone failed to satisfy Naeldric’s ego. He wagered it bothered his father that no one feared steel in his hands, so he bludgeoned his opponents with the only weapons that fit his grip: his gaze and in his words.

Naeldric admired Raban openly. He praised his prowess on the battlefield and celebrated his achievements with honors. Bastion understood that being a Dux didn’t mean you were an elevated breed. His father was flesh and blood, he had all the faults of other men, just more strengths. And like many people, his father admired those who possessed traits the gods failed to impart upon him. Held (Hero) Raban held steel in his hand and made other soldiers freeze in fear. Something Naeldric only dreamed of.

After Naeldric appointed Raban to Bastion's Nulmeisteur (tutor), Bastion expected a mentor like his father, brutal, harsh and quick to anger. Raban surprised Bastion. He bore no resemblance to his father. He spoke plainly. When given the moment, he spoke freely and effusively. He thought deeply. He questioned everything without prejudice or malice. He forged curiosity and action into a sharp point that pierced all conversations. And he did it with the calmness of a tree. He bent under the great winds of Naeldric, but always returned to his upright posture. Unyielding and pliable.

Before long, Bastion loved this man. He shared more and more with him. He trusted Raban. A few years back, he told Kathe what he thought of Raban. “I go to him in the way others go to their fathers.”

“Men never go to their fathers, that’s all nonsense,” quipped Kathe. Her expression was soft, as was usual for her. “Men go to the person who tells them what they want to hear. You’re a prins, that’s a dangerous power to give a soldier your father sees no fault in.”

“He’s not what you think,” countered Bastion.

“He’s appointed by your father. Understand that first.” And that was all she said on the matter, and all she would say in the intervening years.

Bastion returned from his conversation with Lothar. He found Kathe in their quarters. The tall window shed a delicate blue light. A fire snapped in the fireplace, coals smoldered to a reddish white in its basin. Kathe sat at a table, several rolled scrolls piled on one side, while she held one flat to read.

Bastion had made up his mind to sit with Raban. He suspected Kathe wouldn't agree, so he wanted to lead her to his conclusion by a path he thought she would be more open to.

"I detest my father’s misdirections. He transmuted Noel from a holy holiday into a naked purchase of the nobles support. This is supposed to be a sacred feast of the gods."

"The gods you refuse?" Kathe was in a light mood. And she spoke playfully. She suspected after the attack in the bailey that Bastion could use some play.

Bastion made a short, performative chuckle, then continued with his line of reasoning, "He lured nobles here to feed them into submission. I won't take part."

She heard something in his tone that drew her attention to him. She lifted a hand and the scroll rolled closed with a crisp, crinkly sound. She saw on his face a strained expression. "You shouldn't have to," she said in agreement.

"Tonight, we will sit at another table."

“As long as it’s not at Raban’s table." She used a gentle tone. She wanted him to hear a concern, not a demand.

Bastion denied the impulse to ask why. He knew the answer. “We'll sit with Neeklow.”

“Your father won’t be happy,” she said. She had a surprised smile on her face, her eyes danced with mischief.

Bastion saw her expression as a strange kind of hope, like someone pleased but aware of the danger that came with what they heard. He liked that. He kissed her on her forehead.

Bastion had hoped his seat choice would allow him to be avoided, and he was proven correct. He ate in peace. His wife managed all the conversing. He didn’t even need to pay attention. He let his mind wander. Until he felt his father watching him. He wouldn’t look up, scared to meet his gaze.

His father was small but his personality projected large and looming. And he did it in an unusual way. In the swirl and sounds of a soaring party, his father sat calm, intense. He was a sink. All the energy of the party fell to him, and collected in those piercing eyes. Wherever he looked, people froze, anxiously ranged through expressions, seeking the correct response to give back to this cold, stern man.

He noticed Lothar seated next to his father. He watched without looking and saw their casual exchange. His father's eyes remained fixed in his direction. He felt it. It felt like a push.