Chapter II - New Hope Keep - Orville

“Lord Orville.” A faint voice struggled to be heard over the silence of sleep. “My Lord the Seventh, it is time to wake up.” When the castle’s attendants had come to wake the Seventh Duche, they found the boy sprawled across the massive mattress, sheets all a tangle around his legs and snoring loudly. They attempted to rouse him for several minutes; the captain of his castle guard had to intervene before he was finally coherent.

“My Lord the Seventh,” the stocky Syr Corwyn called. Ringed mail clattered against a sturdy breastplate as he shook the little Lord. “It is the day of the Centennial and the Lords of the Oasis will want to break fast by first light.”

“Wake me when Jiro gets here,” he mumbled, and the next thing out of his mouth was a snore. Though he sighed, the knight nodded, and his servants obeyed him dutifully.

When next they sent for him the sun was full in the sky, and he was informed that Syr Jiro was awaiting his presence in the booktower, at his Lord’s leisure. Orville took that to heart and slept for another two hours, or maybe three.

This time when he woke his mind was unclouded and eyelids light. The chill of the desert night had faded while he slumbered and had been replaced with an arid sweltering heat. He kicked away his heavy bed sheets. “Jiro is here.” He smiled, glancing at the timeworn scroll that sat atop his bureau in the corner, in the same place it had been the day before. I can’t forget today. He called for his attendants to have him bathed and dressed. They picked out a fine milk-white silk robe with bulbous sleeves, black tights and satin slippers, but they all looked the same to Orville. He was dried and perfumed and his soft platinum hair combed out, but by the time they were finished his body still felt sluggish. That milk Gaelon gives me for sleep is so strong… A servant presented him with a plate of grapes, but he turned them away and called for the Eldyr. By the time the doddering old man reached Orville’s bedchamber, he could have easily fallen asleep again.

“My Lord the Seventh.” Eldyr Gaelon whistled when he spoke. The flowing sleeves of his robe and his thin wisps of silvery hair both swayed as he dipped a quick bow.

Orville sat up straight on his bed. “Gaelon, I was supposed to be awake hours ago and I’m still tired.” He yawned. “That milk you’ve been giving me is too strong.”

“A-apologies, my Lord the Seventh.” Gaelon’s jowls quivered. “I could make it a tad weaker, perhaps, but, ah, begging pardons my Lord, it was you who told me to make it stronger…”

“I don’t want you to make it weaker.” His tone was sharp, but Orville was simply amusing himself. When he was younger he had discovered that if he said things in a certain way, it made men behave peculiar. They would lace their speech with pleasantries, spouting ‘my Princes’ and profuse apologies. Sometimes they’d shake and more feeble men would even cry; it only worked that much better now that he was sitting on his lord father’s throne. The young Lord found it all outrageously entertaining. “I need something to wake me up. Today’s an important day you know.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Very good my Lord.” the Eldyr mumbled as he collected a handful of liquids, herbs and affects from his satchel, all corked off in tiny glass vials. “A bloodmoon on the night of the centennial, what good fortune! The Prophets must smile on your reign, my Lord the Seventh.”

Orville scowled. Foolish old Thulogist. Doesn’t he realize he’s contradicting himself? Any mention of the Prophets anymore just made to turn his stomach on its end. He hated them and their followers, especially the ones too stupid to bother learning anything about the religion they claimed to follow. “Are you quite finished?”

Gaelon plucked some browning leaves from a bundle at his waist and tossed them to the mortar and pestle with the other ingredients. “Patience, patience, my Lord. Not too much, ah. That’s the one.” He tipped out a tiny red crystal of krima from one of the small vials, pinched it with two fingers, and sprinkled the dust over the mix. With surprisingly deft hands for one of his age, the Eldyr swiftly crushed the concoction into a fine powder and poured it into a cup; the water he then added turned a pale shade of rust. It was rancid and foul, like most of Gaelon’s solutions, but it preformed as advertised. Orville had barely finished his last gulp before he started to feel his muscles tense and a light tingling in his chest. Before he knew it the fatigue had left him like a vanquished spirit.

Orville set the wooden cup down on the stone table with an audible thunk and wiped his mouth clean with the back of his sleeve. He discerned at a glance that the Eldyr was waiting for some sort of thanks or praise, but the Seventh Duche deigned not to oblige him in that today. Instead, he whisked by his bureau, slipped the old scroll of yellowing parchment up a sleeve, and made for the open door. “I have a mind to pay a visit the booktower.” He declared to no one.

The elderly Eldyr nodded slowly in agreement. “A wise choice, my Lord the Seventh, nothing like a good tome to sharpen the mind. I shall send for Syr Corwyn to escort you.”

Orville only scoffed, “I know where the booktower is.” And without a dismissal or even so much as a farewell, Orville strolled out the door and down the stone spiral staircase, leaving Eldyr Gaelon dumbfounded behind him.

New Hope Keep was by no means extravagant, but if she one thing, she was expansive. Originally built as a fort, they named it the ruling seat of the Duche of Lissium when they declared their independence one hundred years ago. Over the ages, more and more was added on, until a castle emerged six Duches later. Hallways and corridors wound about without much rhyme or reason, but the Seventh had lived his entire life behind these walls. If you didn’t know your way around it would be very easy to get lost, though for a keep she took up relatively little space; the base of the Monolith would have trouble fitting inside the yard, let alone the whole castle.

The captain of the guard tipped his helm when the Seventh Duche entered the foyer. “A blessed morning to you my Lord the Seventh.” Syr Corwin greeted the little Lord. “Syr Jiro awaits you in the booktower.”

“I know.” Orville scratched behind his head. He liked toying with this one too.

 “You should also know that the Lords of the oasis have yet to awaken, my Lord,” the knight had a tired look on his face. “I recall they requested to be woken at an early hour to break fast and discuss urgent business, however…” He scratched at his beard, groping for the right words.

Orville did not need to be told; he had seen it enough times when his father brought men to court. It was always important business this, important business that, and always at first light. Then one would have a drink too many, and the others would follow suit. The roaring and hooting and singing and banging of flagon on table would persist into the wee hours of the morning, until they’d drunk themselves blind or drained the cellars dry. And then they would sleep, for what seemed like eons. Even if they managed to wake at a decent time they still had to bathe and dress and make themselves look pretty for the court, lest they be looked down upon by their fellow Lords and nobles. Two valuable lessons Orville had learned from this; sitting a throne is nothing but a game, and men often forget their promises in their cups.

Syr Corwyn was one of his father’s oldest knights, a hero of a war against the desert bandits several years past. As a man of honor and pride, he was not like to take a slight to his reputation lightly. Let’s see how he likes it when he can’t even command respect from a child.

“If that’s the case, what need was there to wake me at such an ungodly hour?” He put on his best Lord’s voice.

Syr Corwyn cleared his throat. “Ahem… well then. With, your leave, my Lord.”

“What do you need my leave for?” Orville snapped. “Syr Jiro arrived at sunrise, did he not? What are you still doing here? You’re no longer of use to me. You should have been gone hours ago.”

The knight remained silent.

The Seventh Duche sighed.  “I bid you my leave.”

Enraged to the point of wordlessness, the captain of the castle guard bowed and turned at once, storming out of the hall.

With a satisfied smile, the Seventh Duche bounded off to his right, across the cavernous foyer to the south bridge that arced across the inside wall of the yard. From there it was only a few flights of stair up to the booktower, where Jiro awaited.

He carefully padded at his sleeve to ensure the scroll of parchment was still there, as he had done several times on this short trip. I can’t forget. He always forgot, and today would be the last day he had to remember.

 

Orville found Syr Jiro Von’faer at his perch; a small wooden desk at the edge of the balcony of the highest level of the booktower. The little Lord climbed the intimidating ladder to the top, but Jiro was so immersed in the book in front of him he barely seemed to notice the arrival of his liege. A half-burned cigarette was gripped in his fingers; if the ashes that towered at its top were any indication, he had forgotten to move it to his lips after lighting it. Those who knew Jiro well could tell you that when he was not on guard or with Delphi, you could probably find him in the booktower, stuffing his head with knowledge that most would find useless; and Orville considered himself to be an expert on Jiro.

“Good morning, my Lord the Seventh.” He stood to make a quick bow. Jiro had always been one to remember his courtesies even when they were unnecessary. “I trust you slept well?”

“Good morning, Syr Jiro.” Orville returned the courtesy. “I slept for too long.”

Jiro chuckled. “Would that I could say the same.”

Though a knight in title, the ‘Syr’ was but a formality, as Jiro was little more than a bodyguard. His father had hired him when he was just a wandering mercenary to fight in the war against the desert bandits, and after the man had passed into the next life, Jiro’s contract was forfeit. But Orville liked Jiro so much that he named him as his personal guard and closest advisor; Syr Corwyn may have held the title of captain, but Jiro was his true right-hand man.

Jiro did not even look like a knight; all he wore for defense was a hauberk of chained mail that lined the inside of his tunic. For the rest, he dressed the part of the mercenary; he would have often been mistaken for a common sellsword about the castle had it not been for the amber broach at his lapel, carved in the shape of the Monolith, marking him a man sworn to the Duche of Lissium. A frayed scarf was draped around his shoulders and a forest-green headband was tied around his forehead to keep the tangle of auburn hair out of his face. The sleeves of his tunic were short and his wrists were strapped with leather gauntlets, but he always kept his heavy surcoat at his waist, held up by durable belt. The roughspun trousers he wore beneath barely went past his knee, and his cloth boots only covered up over his ankles, leaving a good portion of his legs exposed and unprotected.

Any other man-at-arms would call this folly, but Jiro had earned himself a reputation. ‘The Wraith’, they had taken to calling him, a name that fit him well. His movements with a sword in hand were so fluid that his foes would never see him as more than a sharp blur before finding themselves in pieces; heavy armor would only slow him down.

Orville glanced at the open book on the desk next to him; ashes were strewn about its pages. “What are you reading about?” He asked his guard.

“I had… an odd dream.” Jiro folded his arms. “But it made me want to do some research on the bloodmoon festival. Have you ever asked yourself why we celebrate it?” The Seventh Duche could only shake his head. “Apparently, if the author can be trusted, the origins of the bloodmoon festival date back thousands of years, before the fall of the maege.” Jiro leaned over the table to leaf through the tome, “see, the maege believed that when the moon was red their power was at its peak. Many great wars were waged under the light of a bloodmoon; their war to vanquish the zuul and the Unholy Wars that destroyed them alike.”

“Zuul…” Orville recognized the term. They were the great winged beasts from ancient times that appeared in all the old stories; it was said that they were the embodiment of hatred and the bane of life itself, the cause of all pain and suffering. Many dismissed them as a myth in the same way they did the maege, but the proof of their existence was all around them, etched into the histories and cultures of peoples all across Phaedyssia.

“Now think about this,” Jiro continued, “anywhere you go in Phaedyssia, save for the Free Realm maybe, you’ll find a common theme; a deep seated fear of the words zuul, maege, and magyk. Our cultures were founded the hatred of such things, so why would we still celebrate a maege holiday?”

Orville shrugged, “most people would rather celebrate than think about why it is they’re celebrating.”

That made Jiro smile. “Well said. In fact, there was a time when even the mention of the word bloodmoon within Lissium was forbidden. But it would seem that as the common people begin to outnumber the pious few, they acquire a distaste for such… intolerance.” The guard sat back down and swiveled on his stool, turning toward a stack of books. “And speaking of forbidden things…”

A bolt of panic twisted through Orville’s intestines. Oh no…

Jiro pulled a leather-bound book of deep violet from the bottom of the pile and presented it to the little Lord. “Care to explain how I came to find a shadowtome on my desk this morning?”

The words caught in Orville’s throat. Stupid. Of all the things to forget how could you forget to hide the shadowtome? He could play the Lord all he wanted but when Jiro gave him that look, he couldn’t pretend to be anything but a child. “N-nobody ever comes up here but you or me,” he stammered.

“That’s beside the point,” Jiro’s voice was gentle but stern, “where did you get it?”

“From Eldyr Gaelon’s chambers, a few nights ago.”

“You stole from the Eldyr?”

“I didn’t steal it, I was just borrowing it, honest.”

Jiro gave him a quizzical look, “you have an entire tower, three stories tall, full to bursting with books. Why of all things would you want to read a shadowtome?”

“Because it’s forbidden,” he immediately regretted saying.

“Do you have any idea how much danger you’re putting yourself in by having this thing around?” Jiro snapped. “Whether you believe the spells this thing are real or not is an entirely different matter. If the Church of Thule found a book like this in the hands of a common man, they would try him and hang him for treason. Can you imagine what would happen if they found it in the hands of a noble?”

Orville had no real response for that. “The Thulogists are a bunch of hypocrites anyway. They preached the dangers of krima until it was the only thing keeping them alive.”

“Be that as it may,” Jiro digressed, “there would be an Eighth Duche, is what would happen. Orville, your castle is currently host to every Lord and Lady of the Oasis. Did you even think about what would happen if one of them saw it? They honor your claim to the throne because of the love they bore for your father, but do not doubt that they wouldn’t plot to usurp you at even the slightest hint of treason.”

“I just wanted to learn some history is all,” Orville turned his gaze to his shoes, “same as you.”

“Maybe if you paid more attention to your lessons...”

“I do pay attention during my lessons, especially my history lesson,” Orville argued. “But the Proctors glaze right over the most interesting parts, like the Breaking and the Unholy Wars, and they never even mention the zuul. I think they’re all cowards, afraid of something stupid like words on paper. All I want to do is learn, but apparently learning is forbidden too.”

Jiro’s eyes softened. Much to Orville’s surprise, he watched as the guard swiveled around on his stool to face the bookshelf, clearing a messy stack of books out of the way, and placed the shadowtome flush against the stone wall. He then replaced the books he’d moved and organized them neatly, inconspicuous as can be.

“You’re a smart kid.” Jiro winked, “don’t let it get you into trouble.”

Orville was overwhelmed with relief, but then he remembered. “As it just so happens I think I know the perfect way to repay you.”

“Really now?” Jiro seemed genuinely interested, “and what might that be?”

The Seventh Duche reached up his sleeve, but the loud creak of a large door stopped him abruptly before his fingertips could reach the parchment.

“My Lord the Seventh, Syr Jiro,” a servant girl called up at them from three stories below, “the Lords of the Oasis have awoken. They have convened in the Eastmost Hall, where they await your presence.”

Orville looked up at his guardian with disappointed eyes, but he only put a hand at the boy’s back. “We’d best not keep the Lords and Ladies waiting,” Jiro urged him on, “you can tell me about it later.”

“Right,” the Seventh Duche made himself agree as he swung a foot down over the first rung of the ladder, “later…”