“Beltane is almost upon us. By midsummer’s eve, I shall be gone.” Althalos smiled. “And that, nephew, is a promise.”
When Sir Althalos had finally taken his leave, Otto poured himself a generous goblet of wine and downed it in one long gulp. As the last of the day’s light slipped from the sky, Otto sat and gazed at the portrait of his father, noting how the tempera colors seemed to glow even more luminous in the shadows.
His father’s rule had brought glory and prosperity to Darkmoor, that fact was indisputable. Thanks to Lord Ulric, their people had coin in their pockets and roofs over their heads. Their lands were fertile and well-farmed, their harvests bountiful. They lived in difficult times, but despite their proximity to the wild borderlands of Scotland, no raiding parties had successfully breached their defenses since Ulric was made earl. His policy of warfare worked, both as a deterrent to would-be attackers, and a means of accruing riches.
But this was just one part of the story. Otto twisted the silver goblet and squeezed his eyes shut to rid himself of the unwanted images playing on a reel inside his mind. Violence, shouting, the clash of steel on steel, injured men staggering towards their enemies, panting horses rearing in fear. He had seen it all a thousand times.
Must he endure it a thousand times more?
What about any sons he may have? Even grandsons?
Would Otto himself sacrifice his life in vain pursuit of land and coin? There was already wealth enough in the castle coffers to pay the wages upon which his people depended.
These were questions he had asked himself many times, and he doubted he would find the answer tonight. The conflict tearing through his soul had begun long before the ill-fated battle of Branfeld. His father’s counsel sat on one shoulder, like a wise owl, parroting the words of advice Otto had grown up hearing.
Suffer no fools.
Rule through fear.
Show no weakness; show no mercy.
Dictates that Sir Althalos would have him adhere to still.
But on his other shoulder sat a more peaceable mage. One who suggested a different path forward, a path paved with the flags of peace.
Peace.
The idea tugged at him, harder and harder to ignore.
Days earlier, on his way about the castle, Otto had passed by Traitor’s Gate and heard a faint singing coming from its forbidding walls. The haunting melody seemed to speak of forgiveness and healing, unlocking some bittersweet melancholy deep inside him. He had halted his horse and listened, as if under a spell.
Memories had assaulted him from the terrible moments immediately after the battle of Branfeld. Moments when, gripped by despair, he had ordered the capture and imprisonment of the druid healer who had kneeled by Ulric’s side as he passed. Caught up in his grief, he had considered her complicit in his death, as culpable as the man who swung the sword into his father’s ribs.
Sitting quietly, astride his horse, he had begun to question those convictions. The druids were a peaceful people. Was he guilty of meeting their compassion with battle-honed aggression?
Should I release the druid and redress this wrong?Inside the solar, his father’s portrait seemed to gimmer in a silent rebuke, telling him what he already knew. His men expected vengeance. Althalos would countenance nothing less. If Otto wished to tread a different path, he would find no support within Darkmoor.
And where else mattered?
He had two powerful allies in Guy, Earl of Rossfarne and Angus de Neville. These were boyhood friendships, lasting ever since they had trained together at the Lindum Academy. In more recent years, Otto had travelled solely at his father’s command. His life had been one of obedience to Lord Ulric; even quashing his youthful ambitions to serve under the King.
Instead, he had remained here, leading his father’s army. Gaining a reputation as theFeared One.
How could he make further allies and forge a path towards peace when his instincts were to trust no one?
Otto set the goblet spinning on the polished surface of the desk, hardly caring when the sticky residue spilled out.
There was one area in his life in which he enjoyed absolute clarity: Ariana.
He would leave these ruminations for another day and seek out the manifold pleasures of his bride’s company. Desire flickered through him at the memory of how her curvaceous body had responded to his touch. Ariana of Kenmar was proving to be a woman full of surprises.
He was beginning to feel fortunate to be her husband.
“Tonight,”he had suggested, down at the river. And she had readily agreed.
Seized with new energy, he walked hurriedly from the solar and strode through the corridors of the castle, acknowledging the servants and knights who paused in their tasks to stand aside for him. He bounded up the staircase with the enthusiasm of a boy, feeling the tensions of the afternoon fall from his shoulders as he reached her chamber door.
But before he could raise his hand to knock, the door swung open and Merek came out. The older man was startled by his presence and made a hurried bow.
