Chapter 4

5 Noel 1061

The Aechtung (River Keep) was first built in the age before the welklings arrived in Endleland. According to legend, dwelvlings had constructed the original keep. The welklings drove them out and took possession. That's the legend. It happened so far in the past, at a time when the welklings weren't writing as much down, and what they did write down was in earlier tongues and difficult to translate. Whether or not the legends were, they were accepted as fact. The older sections of the keep certainly lent credence to the legends. Everything was built grandly, but on a smaller scale, one more appropriate for the shorter dwelvlings. Those oldest parts were constructed of finely cut-stone, carefully shaped to interlock without the need for mortar. The precision smelled of patience and care. The sort of patience welklings rarely demonstrated.

In the centuries that followed, especially so during the period that the Vaenaen Empire occupied Fael, Aechtung grew. Walls, buildings and baileys sprung up. These new appendages were fashioned in the manner of the Empire. Uniform stones, laid with mortar with specific proportions and great care taken in the orientation of the room, doors and windows according to the heavens.

At no time over the centuries was the Aechtung empty or razed. Even after bitter wars fought between sides that claimed righteousness and the gods favor, contests that commonly ended in razing of walls, burning of cities, and the destructions of the symbols of the vanquished, the Aechtung was left standing, looted, but untouched. Perched atop a cliff high above the sea with a deep port carved into the river Ada Nein (Ending River) that spilled into the sea, the Aechtung was so positioned ideally. Its conquerors found too many reasons to ignore the stain of their prior inhabitants and simply occupy the structure.

The Ful Haus (Hall of Tomes) was located in the oldest section of the keep. Inside it were reliefs and carvings of the Aechtung, some centuries old, which depicted the keep through the ages. The sequences of reliefs, when viewed at a brisk walking pace, suggested that rock and stone grew of its own volition in the form of the keep. The earliest depiction, a relief discovered in deep hidden chamber, showed a stout block of stone, like a tooth that burst through the earth. It sat atop the cliff over looking the sea. During Imperial rule, the port on the river was added, with the great steps along the Mura Ada (River Wall) to come later. Then the wall sprung up, maybe prematurely. The inhabitants burst out of the wall, settled across the river and soon what was called Fael straddled both banks of the river. The old portion, the stretch along the western bank of the river, was called Westra Fael (West Fael) and a certain distinction was given to those who lived there.

Lothar was the youngest to be appointed stigvird (steward) in memory. Tradition placed his quarters along the river face of the Aechtung, in a newer section of the keep, and was comprised of three tall, pillared rooms with stained glass windows and a mechanism to open and close shutters (an invention that foreign dignitaries came to see, the mechanicals were hidden within the wall where their secret was safe from imitators). The room perched high enough above the river, but not so high, that in the morning the sunrise sprinkled golden light across his bed chambers but did not poke directly through. Despite tradition, Lothar refused that room. He desired a room along the Mura Mari (Sea Wall), in the old fortress, nearer to the Dux. He first insisted upon the move, and when the Aechtung Keepers denied him, he ordered them by the power of his office. Even then, it took some more doing and time. The keepers of the Aechtung were not accustomed to their traditions being questioned. To them, tradition was a kind of law with a binding power of its own. Lothar revealed the weakness of tradition. And despite their protests, they were powerless to prevent his usurping of the custom.

Two levels beneath the Dux’s abode, stuffed away in a low hall (clearly built for the smaller Dwelvlings) but facing out over the sea was the chamber Lothar coveted and in short time claimed. Two rooms, a study and a bedroom, no capacity for a family (his wife and children resided on the far side of the keep). He had no cover from the setting sun, which shone in like a blade of light through the crystalline windows and seared the eyes. The elaborate shutters in the traditional rooms of the stigvird did not exist in these older rooms. He hung tapestries over the windows, which he often just left in place. “I want the same light as the Dux,” he explained whenever asked. Behind his back, people raised a brow at the assertion, but to his face, they appeared agreeable and understanding with those “Ahhs,” that someone utilizes when they are pretending to be impressed.

Lothar stood at a juncture between the old and the new Aechtung, where the newer high ceilinged hall met a low archway, and beyond was the older, smooth, narrow passages that led to his quarters. Lothar was sent by Naeldric to convene the Duxhalle (small council). They were to meet earlier in the day, but after Naeldric's altercation with his son, the council was postponed. Lothar was grateful for the delay. He wanted more time to convince one of the meisteurs (Egon) to back him and his plans.

Lothar had suspected for several days that Naeldric would invade Balrode if their braet (lord), Burkhaerd, continued to speak against his unification strategy. And were that to happen, Lothar saw an opportunity for himself.

How long had he been a stalwart supporter behind his friend, the dux? Since when he helped Naeldric rein his brother in? Earlier. Since childhood. At times Lothar felt he knew Naeldric so thoroughly, could predict every aspect of his mood, that he believed they had lived a lifetime of lifetimes, cycles of reincarnation, played over and over, and always Lothar supported Naeldric.

Lothar came from a line of advisors and meisteurs, none of whom owned much land or held claim to great titles. They lived off their influence and the largesse of their office. Lothar felt he deserved more than the skim stigvird's could cut away from the functioning of the realm. To get more, he would need to be more, and his preferred path was to become a marchall (marshal, a general). War leaders commanded respect and were rewarded with land and titles. He was overlooked during the three years of campaigns at the start of Naeldric's rule. He was overlooked during the two years of campaigns prior to this second attempt at diplomacy. Each time Naeldric explained, in private, why he was passed over. With a hand on his shoulder, his face close to Lothar's, he'd said, "I have need of you, and I can't squander you on a battlefield. Look at me, I said I have a need for you. This is not what you think it is. You've never set foot on a battlefield. You've never smelled blood and vomit and mud and listened the cries of men. Your genius, right, your genius lies in these halls. I need your eyes here when mine are out there." Lothar argued him. Naeldric insisted the scale was too grand, the risk was too high to put him in the field. This time, Balrode, seemed smaller in every sense. If it's safe enough to send the only heir to the throne, there was no reason he couldn't go. He needed to change Naeldric's mind, and to do that he needed help.

He tapped his chin while he considered how to proceed. The idea came to him quickly, as most of his ideas do. He ran back the way he came, then stopped before a smooth section of wall. He looked quickly up and down the hall. He heard the hollow sound of voices ringing down the halls from far off. Safely alone and unseen, he pressed on a section of the wall, and it slid open with scraping sound revealing a hidden passage. He rushed in, closed the door behind him, and was at once enveloped in darkness. The air tasted dank, stale and familiar. He felt at home in these passage ways. He was convinced that he and no one else alive knew of their existence. He used them for years to traverse the Aechtung unseen. Not once did he cross another, nor has he ever seen lights in the distance, or evidence of another's passage.

He knew the secret ways of the Aechtung well enough to go through the darkness without a light. A hand dragged lightly along the wall, the rough stone scraped his fingertips, cold, damp, uneven. He slid his feet along the floor. The darkness was deep and dizzying. It swallowed everything, he couldn't even see himself inside there. His eyes played tricks on him, and he did what he always did, he closed his eyes. There was no visible change in what he saw, but there was a comfort that came from the control of believing he blinded himself, rather than the darkness.

He moved rapidly, even in the dark. He counted his steps. His hand passed over openings, other passages that split off. He heard muffled sounds. The passage passed close by rooms, hallways. The sound came in through hidden vents. The air whistled near the vents. A breeze pushed at his back. Three gaps on his left, then he takes a right. The passage snakes. Nothing is straight about these dark tunnels. They twist, sometimes back over themselves. Then he stopped, fifteen steps past the last turn. He felt around until his hand met a cold brass handle. He put his ear to the wall. He listened. For a several breaths, he listened. His own breathing shallow and hushed. When he was confident no one was on the other side, he pulled the handle. The door resisted. He gave it a jerk, and then the seal broke with a whoosh. Light flooded into the passage. His eyes were closed, all he saw was a red impression on his eyelids. He cracked his eyes open, the light was bright, it hurt. He blinked rapidly, then let his eyes open just enough to adjust, to see what lay outside. A hallway in the old part of the keep. Swept clean. Lamps hung from hooks along the wall.

He stepped out quickly. The door closed with a thud, almost on its own. He stood opposite the entrance to the Duxhalle (small council room). He grabbed a lamp from the wall, and let himself in. It was dark, quiet. When empty, this room had a stillness pecuilar to itself. Unlike when council was in session and raised voices bounced off the close walls, fists punched at the table in defiance. The sound of bowls thrown against he wall in anger, shattering and sending shards of clay and clouds of dust. But when he was in there alone, the emptiness seemed to plunge deeper, to create space for the debates to come soon.

He moved quickly to a shelf in the back. He ran a pointed finger along the dusty spines of leather bound books. He stopped on one, cocked his head to read the embossed title, then with a finger he pulled it out and tipped it into his hands. He stashed the ledger beneath his tunic. He exited quickly, reentered his secret passages and took a different route. Again, his eyes closed. His hand glided along the damp, rough stone corridor. He emerged nearby the Waes Langhaus (Great White Hall).

He was breathless. He inhaled deeply an composed himself. He smoothed his tunic. He checked the ledger, made sure it was secure under his tunic and covered by his cape. Then he leaned into the doorway. The guards looked at him, recognized the stigvird and gave him a knowing wink.

"I'm certain a barrel of that wine was lost in the courtyard. One of you should check to see if rolled into the barracks."

The guards stifled a laugh, then with a guilty smirk said, "We have already ... ah ... inspected the barracks. Nothing to report, sir."

"I feel safer knowing we have the likes of you keeping a close tab on things. Now, if you could help me, meisteur Egon is just over there. Would you fetch him and bring him here, to me?"

"My pleasure."

Lothar led his fellow minister Egon Fuchs, the Folmeisteur (Master of Tomes), through the Aechtung. "Walk with me, Egon. I have to fetch a ledger from my room before the Duxhalle (small council)."

Egon eagerly agreed with a rapid nod of his head and a quick succession of "Sure, sure, sure."

Egon Fuchs was a respected man who’s head was encircled by a halo of frayed gray hairs. He had the admirable quality of always appearing agreeable. It made for easy conversations with him, but suspicious conversations about him.

As they walked from the Waes Langhaus (Great White Hall) to Lothar’s chambers, they passed into the older portion of the keep. The ceilings dipped lower, the walls closed in about them.

"How'd you like the wine?" Lothar said to get the conversation going. He found Egon awkward. The older man could walk in silence with someone without any discomfort.

Egon grunted. "I only drank the Sterich wine." He gave Lothar a sidelong glance.

Lothar's mind was intent on discussing the planned raid on Balrode. When he asked about the wine, it was almost a reflex, an automatic question not intended for a genuine response. Egon's reaction drew Lothar back and he stumbled mentally to divine the source of Egon's irritation. "But the Leyden (wine)," he said in a confused manner that slowed with each word until he said Leyden and then he was filled with a deep regret at bringing it up. He knew before he could say it how he went wrong. But he didn't know it faster than Egon who was all too ready to voice his displeasure.

"Really, a fay, Lothar."

Lothar wanted to laugh. Lothar thought Egon's obsession with the fay absurd. Absurd obsessions could be useful to motivate someone, in this case it was an inconvenience because he hadn't remembered before he asked. "The Dux wants Leyden wines, I get Leyden wines."

"From the fay?"

"You had none?"

"Of course not."

Lothar let that hang in the air for a moment, a condescending smile on his face. Then he tried to turn the conversation lighter. “Your daughter looked happy,” remarked Lothar.

“Ah, she wears the Fuch mask. She smiles but inside she roils. She's not happy I’m called away to a council. One day she'll know, duty has no calendar, just a calling.”

Lothar passed his answer through his Fuch’s Filter. It’s the name he gave for how he deciphered Fuch’s motivations. Egon never shared all he knew. He'd let just a bit out at a time, the rest remained locked away in that impressive mind of his. Lothar liked to think he heard Egon's thoughts rattle about, and he could decipher them. From his answer about his daughter appearing happy, Lothar deciphered that Egon didn’t wish to leave the feast, but expressed through his daughter's displeasure. Lothar didn't like Egon's daughter, Hedwig. He found her dull, tedious and unpleasant to look at. Still, Egon seemed unusually happy, especially for someone pulled away from a feast they'd rather stay at. “What's the bounce in your step?"

A twinkle passed over Egon’s eyes. “The prins is at it again!” Egon said with a childish delight.

“Oh?”

“He fights with his father. And from what I can tell, it seems he’s requisitioned a tome from a collector in Larynn.” Egon shielded his mouth his hand and said in a whisper, “Another fay, at that. It's a plague in these halls. The gods,” He pleaded skyward, "And their wrath."

Lothar heard so many threads to pull. Lothar chanced a scan of Egon’s face to see if he was flushed with wine. He was. And it seemed the wine cracked open a window into that guarded mind of his. What have the gods gifted me tonight? Lothar wondered. Then he reframed his thinking, Temptations of the gods all lead astray.

“A fight has an attacker and a defender, a tantrum has only an attacker. I didn't see Bastion mount much of a defense. I am worried for the prins,” Lothar baited.

“Worried is not the word I’d use. Entertained! And you should watch with whom you use the word tantrum.” Egon gave Lothar a soft pat on his back.

“Well, I am worried. You will soon hear,” Lothar said in a concerned, almost defeated voice.

“Soon is one of those threatening words I don’t like,” chuckled Egon.

“Right. I may as well prepare you. At today's council Naeldric will order a force led by Bastion to invade Balrode."

"Bastion?" he blurt his response out with the suddenness of a water finally cresting a damn.

"You didn't let me finish. The invasion will occur during the Weide (Hunt).”

Egon said nothing for several paces. His eyes focussed inward. He drew his lips into a soft pucker. "The Weide. May the gods show mercy. Or ..." And Egon thought for a few more steps. Lothar slowed their pace just enough to give Egon more time, yet subtle enough to not be noticeable. These lapses in speaking were a hallmark of the Fuch's filter at work. Egon was choosing his words, choosing which thoughts to share very carefully. This pleased Lothar. Egon could keep all his thoughts to himself. Lothar needed only to plant one specific thought in his mind. Lothar let him work. He said nothing, and let the silence imply he was waiting for Egon to finish.

At last Egon spoke. “The father orders the breech of the Weide, and the son executes the breech. All in the eyes of the gods..." His voice trailed off again.

Lothar saw his chance. "Right. The entire line of Wendler (the family line of Naeldric) hazarded to take Balrode? Balrode. Of all places. I can't see why he'd risk so much for such a small prize."

Egon corrected Lothar. "We'd risk, you mean." His expression changed. It became focussed. "What other gods does Naeldric court? Has he some vision or calling that pushes him down this path?"

Lothar sped up their pace. This was not the train of thought he anticipated nor wanted. "Sorry, we will be late. Even if so, let's say some god has come to him and offered protection for breaking the Weide, wouldn't it be better to send another? Not Bastion? Why such a big risk?"

Egon spoke as if he hadn't heard what Lothar just said. “The gods retribution is slow, often poetic. A failed invasion is quick and bloody. Bastion isn’t fit to lead a raid. They argued again, you know. Wait, I already mentioned that. Hmmm, Naeldric does tire of people, no matter how thick the blood.” He took a few more steps, then stopped. He looked as if he replayed something in his mind. He had a sly smile on his face, “And who, then, should lead this raid?”

They were not far from Lothar's quarters, in a low hall of the old keep. It was a major thoroughfare, which at all times of day and night had a stream of people coursing from one place to another. Most were servants on business of the keep. Some were the petty lutzi-braets (little lords) who made sure they had business along this stretch in hopes of bumping into their betters and becoming known. When Lothar and Egon stopped, they stopped in the center of the hall. The flow of mostly servants streamed about them like rocks in a stream.

Lothar grasped Egon by the elbow and urged him forward. Egon resisted. "You have a candidate," said Egon. He smiled a knowing smile. Egon’s tongue rested on his top lip, then flicked to lick his bottom lip before he sucked it back into his mouth. "You're right, let's hurry. We shouldn't be late."

Lothar suspected Egon had worked it out. The effect of the wine had left Egon. He was back in control, and quickly shutting the little windows of his mind and sealing up his thoughts.

They reached Lothar’s room. Egon refused the invitation to enter with a shake of his head and a frantic wave of his hands. He was a round man with plump hands that looked as if he didn’t have wrists, just a hinge from palm to hammy forearm. His gestures looked childish, like the plump movements of chubby babies.

Lothar left the door open and continued to talk to him from inside his chambers, his voice carried off the walls. Egon smelled something sweet and a bit acrid. He tilted his nose up to catch the draft, took two quick sniffs, then a deeper one. Held his breath. Moonsticks. He was sure of it, but he hadn’t ever smoked one himself. They were a potent drug with strong claws that grabbed hold of most who tried. He poked his head into the door, looked about in the dark room. Embers from an old fire glowed red and provided little light. But from Lothar’s bed chamber, where a fire crackled and spit in the fireplace, an orange light that cast dark black shadows lightly illuminated the room. The smell was stronger inside.

Egon’s mind worked like two. He would have a thought, then as if another person’s was present in his mind, a second voice would question the first. When he was intellectually engaged in a matter, he worked through problems quicker than most. He was uncommonly able to cast aside an idea of his own in favor of a better idea from someone else. He credited this gift to how his own mind worked. Smelling the Moonstick he postulated that Lothar had a vice. Then that second part of his mind quickly countered, “Or he harbors a guest with a nasty habit.” That was a convincing enough counter, so Egon settled upon, “Someone in Lothar’s room, maybe Lothar, has a nasty, nasty habit.” He found that even more entertaining than Bastion’s pursuit of tomes the Dux has expressly forbid.

“Tell me Lothar, why not have your wife and children move in with you? I see it’s small, but you must be lonely.”

“That’s a question I’d expect from a bachelor.” Lothar called back from his room. His voice filled with evasive humor.

Egon laughed. “But if I were you,” he hesitated before he continued, “I would move back to the official chambers of the stigvird. Be further from the Dux. You’ll want privacy that the old Keep doesn’t offer.”

Lothar rounded out of his room, stepped into the hallway, closed the door behind him. “Oh, I have enough privacy here. Plus, I remain close to the seat of the Dux”.

Close enough? Egon wondered.