David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

Those days were long gone indeed.

He rose to his feet and entered the Tower Keep, the tall, ugly building that served as his family’s home away from home. There were only three of them living in the large structure: his mother, his father, and his sister, Adeline.

Entering the front gate, he trudged through the entrance hall, making sure to cut a wide swath between himself and the ingress to his father’s studio. He could never explain why, but he always experienced a sort of vertigo that made him feel ill beyond belief whenever he so much as approached his father’s workplace, the room originally meant to hold a throne, now adorned with the mystic painting of Karak, Ashhur, and Celestia.

His knees ached as he climbed the stairs. The walls were thick and rough, hewn from granite from the north, and he pressed his hand against them for support. Unlike the Castle of the Lion, which always felt cold, the Tower Keep seemed not only to retain heat, but also to magnify it. The huge sword on his back weighed him down, and the effort of his climb caused sweat to bead on his shaved head and gather in his thick eyebrows. His swaying beard left a crescent of moisture on his bare chest, and his horsehide breeches clung to his buttocks, chafing him between the legs. It was just past noon, but as far as he was concerned, the sun couldn’t set soon enough.

On the third level, the muted sound of two women speaking reached his ears. This was odd, as it was midweek, which meant his mother should be in the Tower Justice courtroom, doling out punishments and keeping an eye on his crazy sister. Something catastrophic must have happened for her to be here now. He cautiously approached the closed door to her chambers and rapped it lightly with his knuckles.

“Mother?” he asked.

“Come in,” replied his mother’s voice, sounding strange and conflicted.

Pushing open the door to her large room, he saw the eminent Soleh Mori sitting on the bed, her dark, wavy hair hanging to the middle of her waist, her soulful brown eyes wide and attentive. Her hand drew to her mouth at the sight of him and she gasped. Beside her was Lanike Crestwell, wife of the Highest, a small, mousy woman whose petite features spoke more of cutesiness than outright beauty. They both looked like schoolgirls, what with their perfect complexions and youthful veneers.

It took him a moment to realize that the lady of House Crestwell was in his mother’s room , and once that understanding hit him, he went to the corner of the bed, fell to one knee, and kissed each woman’s hand in turn.

“Stand up, son,” his mother said, sounding edgy even though she was obviously overjoyed to see him.

“Yes, Vulfram, stand,” said Lanike kindly.

“I would prefer to sit, if you don’t mind,” he replied, looping Darkfall’s scabbard over his head and setting it down before sitting cross-legged on a stone floor that seemed to pulse with warmth. His mother began to cry, happy tears now, and she couldn’t keep her eyes off him.

“My son, my wonderful Vulfram, is home. Karak is good.”

“That he is, Mother. But why are you not at the castle?”

His mother grinned and cast a cautious glance at Lanike.

“There has been…news, my son. Both for good and ill. Because of that, Lady Crestwell gave me leave today. But I do not wish to speak of such things now. Can I simply bask in the knowledge that you are home? ”

“Bask all you want, Mother, but please tell me the news.”

“Well,” his mother said, clearing her throat, “for the good, Karak has returned to us. He visited me in the Arena nine days ago. He is as strong and wise as ever, and he insists his return is permanent. I have visited him four times over that span, but he will not take any other visitors for the time being. I believe that he is tired from his journey.”

“I see,” said Vulfram. So that explained the differences he had noticed as he walked north from the Castle of the Lion to the Tower Keep. People were out in abundance, as was usual in the city, but their demeanor was different somehow. Lighter. He had even seen one of his old charges from the Watch, a surly sort, grinning at passersby as he manned the corner in front of Graymare’s Apothecary.

“You’re right, Mother,” he said. “This is a good thing.”

Soleh’s face soured, turning suddenly sad. “It is,” she agreed.

He reached for her, but she moved before he could touch her.

“Mother, what is it? What ills you?”

“I…it is just…”

“A letter came this morning from your manor in Erznia,” said Lanike Crestwell, taking Soleh’s hand. Her high-pitched voice matched her mousy features. “It seems your daughter Lyana has found herself in a rather…compromising position.”

Vulfram’s heart skipped a beat. “Lyana? What has she done this time?”

Lyana Mori was his second child and a bit of a wild soul. She was always getting into spats with the local farmers, one time even earning a high merchant’s ire by attempting to bed his thirteen-year-old son. She had been nine at the time. Now she was sixteen.

“The letter did not say,” said Lanike. “It was an official epistle sent by Magister Wentner, requesting the presence of a high official to sit in judgment of your daughter. We’ve been given no word of the charges. With Joseph in Dezerea, I thought to send Crian to settle the matter.”

“No other man will sit in judgment of my daughter,” said Vulfram. “I am Lord Commander of Karak’s Army. I will take care of this myself.”

The idea of him leaving seemed to break his mother, and she turned her face to hide her tears. Lanike gave him a hard look and said, “You have your responsibilities to the realm and its forces to consider.”

“Responsibilities from which your husband the Highest has granted me leave. I have a month to do as I please. This changes nothing, for I was already planning to return to my family. Come morning, I’ll ride. If the weather holds, I can make it there in less than two days.”

Lanike squeezed his hand, hard. “Remember, Lord Commander, that you are bound by Karak’s laws. As much as you love your daughter, it is your creator to whom you owe loyalty.”

He ripped his fingers away. “I realize this, Lady Crestwell. No one loves Karak more than I. And whatever Lyana has done, I will punish her as the law demands. Of that you have my word, not that you would need it. Now, if you will excuse me, I must gather my things from the castle and ready my horse.”

His mother stopped weeping into her pillow and leapt off the bed. She barreled into him, wrapping him tightly in her arms, wetting his chest with her tears. It never ceased to amaze him how different his mother was outside of a public setting; in court she was steel, unflinching, whereas behind closed doors, among her husband and children, she was like a ball of yarn that couldn’t keep itself together. It was something he admired about her, really. He wished he could be as open with his emotions as she was, even if only on occasion.

Soleh pulled him close, standing on her toes so that her lips might reach his ear.

“I love you, Vulfram, and I love my granddaughter,” she whispered. “Please, no matter what she has done, be kind to her. She has not known a father’s love for many years. Show her the mercy she deserves.”

“I will, Mother,” he whispered, and after placing a gentle kiss on her forehead, he exited her chamber. First the show of violence against Haven, followed by countless insufferable nights spent listening to Highest Crestwell’s endless proselytizing, and now his Lyana in trouble. An endless stream of tension that had tightened his chest and turned the hairs in his beard even grayer than before. His heart beat out of control, stealing away his breath.