Chapter 4

5 Noel 1061

“Right.” Naeldric exhaled, pressed himself up from his seat, cast a look about and beckoned for Lothar. The festivities had resumed, the wine from Leyden amplifying the merriment. Naeldric thought it time to ready for the last duties of the night. Tomorrow the court and most all its guests will depart for the great Weide (Hunt). Naeldric liked to check all things were in order ahead of time. Life, to Naeldric, required a program, a detailed program that ensured when things are good, nothing is missed. “Assemble the council,” he told Lothar. Quietly.”

Lothar nodded.

“Quietly,” Naeldric said again, for emphasis. He locked eyes with Lothar, brows raised, gave him a good, stern inspection.

The Aechtung (River Keep) was first built long before welklings reached Endleland. It was believed that the dwelvlings first built it. They used cut-stone shaped to interlock without the need for mortar. The precision smelled of patience and care. At no time over the centuries was the Aechtung empty. Even after bitter wars fought by sides where both painted the contest with the colors of good versus evil, where it was expected to raze homes, farms, fortresses, granaries, to salt the land, lay a curse on anything that grew there and desecrate the location, the Aechtung was left standing. And it avoided that fate century after century. Perched on a cliff high above the sea with a deep port carved into the river Ada Nein (Ending River) which spilled into the sea, the Aechtung provided so much that conquerors looked past the stain of their prior inhabitants. In the Ful Haus (Hall of Tomes) reliefs and carvings of the Aechtung through the centuries made it look as if the rock and stone grew over time. 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. At some time after, 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 the river. The old portion, the along the western bank of the river, was called Westra Fael (West Fael) and a certain distinction was given to those who lived there.

When Lothar was appointed Stigvird (Steward), he was the youngest in memory to receive such an appointment. Tradition placed his quarters in the keep along the river face of the Aechtung. 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 up, but not so high, that in the morning the sunrise sprinkled golden light across his bed chambers but did not poke directly through. Lothar refused to accept that room, despite tradition. He wanted 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.

Two levels lower than the Dux’s abode, stuffed away in a low hall (clearly built for the smaller Dwelvlings) but facing out over the sea was Lothar’s chambers. Two rooms, a study and a bedroom, no capacity for a family (his 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 and seared the eyes. He hung tapestries over the windows, which he often just left in place. “I want the same view 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.

The Dux wanted to meet his ministers, Lothar needed records from his room before he and the other ministers met with the Dux in the Duxhalle (Small Room, the private meeting area for the Dux). Lothar scooped up his fellow minister Egon Fuchs, the Folmeisteur (Master of Tomes), to walk with him.

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.

“Your daughter seems merry,” remarked Lothar. A passing comment to get the conversation going.

“Ah, she wears the Fuch mask. She smiles but inside she roils. None to happy I’m being called away to a council. I tell her duty lost its calendar long ago.”

Lothar remembered who he spoke with and passed his answer through his Fuch’s Filter. It’s what he called his way of deciphering what motivations Fuch’s tried to keep locked away in that aging head. Lothar liked to think he heard them rattle about, and he could decipher them. He understood Egon didn’t wish to leave the feast, but expressed it via his daughter. Lothar thought little of Hedwig (he found her dull, tedious and unpleasant to look at), so he pursued Egon. “You seem to engrossed in this year’s feast ...” He let his voice trail off in hopes that Fuch’s would pick it up.

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

“Oh?”

“Seems he’s requisitioned a tome from a Larynn collector,” Egon shielded his mouth his hand and said in a whisper, “A fay at that.”

Lothar found so many threads to pull in what Egon just said. He said so much, maybe without realizing it? 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?” He wondered to himself. Then he reframed his thinking, “What are the gods tempting me with? Stay the course.”

“It’s the prins I am worried about,” Lothar baited.

“Worried is not the word I’d use. Entertained!”

Egon appeared giddy. Lothar wondered what this tome was, who this fay was but he didn’t dare waste this moment.

“I am worried. You will soon hear.”

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

“At the council, Naeldric will instruct a force led by Bastion to invade Balrode during the Weide (Hunt).”

“And you worry for Bastion? The gods will not be pleased with Naeldric breaking the custom of peace during the Weide.”

“The gods retribution is slow, often poetic. A failed invasion is quick and bloody. Bastion isn’t fit to lead a raid.”

Egon’s eyes cleared a bit. His smile came under his control. “And who, then, should lead this raid?”

“Who do you think?”

Lothar saw it then, how the wine had been pushed aside to let him close that cracked window and seal up his thoughts within that inner sanctum of his mind.

Egon’s tongue rested on his top lip, then flicked to lick his bottom lip before he sucked it back into his mouth. “Must be someone who wouldn’t ordinarily attend the Weide or it would raise suspicions.”

“That’s a short list. Already Bastion’s exclusion could raise eyebrows?”

“Eyebrows? More like spirits will be raised! No one fears Bastion, for sure. Fewer enjoy his company. It’s like talking to a wall.”

“Much like his father.”

“Yes, but Naeldric’s wall has a vast vault behind it, laden with treasures. I hate to disparage my ilk, but all that lies inside of Bastion are dusty old books.”

Lothar laughed, “Are you finally admitting that dusty old books provide little value?”

“Between friends, yes. Officially, I require the Dux’s silver to expand my library, hence it’s a critical resource for the advancement of our city. And I will deny this conversation should you repeat it. We both know, I will be believed before you are.”

“Is that so?” They shared a laugh.

They reached Lothar’s room. Egon refused the invitation to enter with a shake of his head and a frantic waving 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 has 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.