Carol Berg - Guardians Of The Keep

“Then get them, fool. Must I hold your hand?”

“Duke Tomas-may blessed Annadis write his name- left instructions at the first of this year that my lady must see to collecting the rents, as he was to be away on the appointed day. The Lords of Comigor have honored their covenant with the tenants for more than five hundred years. Only the lord or a member of his family may receive the rents. The tenants are not permitted to deliver their coins to anyone else.”

The bruised patience in the steward’s voice gave me the sense that this was not the first time for such an argument.

“You insufferable prig. It was certainly not my choice to rot here while my husband went charging all over the Four Realms, but of course he never consulted me in this or any other matter. ‘For Gerick’s inheritance,’ he said. ‘To keep the vultures in Montevial from getting any ideas.’ As if I knew nothing about inheritance and ambition. At least he can’t pester me about it any longer. A new lord rules here-though he listens to me no better than his father.” The painted fan that Philomena had been napping like a pennant in a gale fell still, and her rosy face beamed with sudden inspiration. “Of course! My son can do it! He is the castle lord now. I’ll command him to collect the cursed rents.”

The long-suffering steward replied patiently. “Until he comes of age, the young duke cannot collect the rents, Your Grace. He is too young to be held to account, and therefore he cannot fulfill the terms of the covenant.”

Philomena uncorked a silver vial she had snatched from her bedside table, inhaled deeply, and closed her eyes for a moment, then motioned to one of her maids. “Even if I could escape from my bed, I would not spend an entire tedious day nodding and smiling to filthy peasants. I care nothing for their nasty children or their cows or their wheat. Find some other way to get the money. Send the soldiers. Take hostages. I don’t care.”

“My lady, please… the dishonor of it…”

The steward seemed on the brink of tears, but Philomena turned her attention to a silver-backed mirror a maid had brought her, instantly rapt as the girl began to brush her golden hair. The steward stood his ground for a few moments, but when the lady began directing the maid in how to braid her tresses, he bowed and slunk out of the room.

I knew well of the Comigor Covenant. How many times had I been forced to dress in my stiffest clothes and sit in endless boredom beside my mother and Tomas as my father collected his rents? The ceremony played out like an elaborate dance figure. On the first day of every year, Covenant Day, the line of tenants would stretch through the great hall, across the outer ward and far into the outer bailey. One by one they would step forward, and my father would graciously invite the man to sit with him at a small table, offering him the glass of wine that sat on the table. Inevitably, the man would refuse the wine. The tenant would inquire politely after the health of the lord’s family. We were always “quite robust,” even when my mother was so weak from her last illness that she had to be carried up the stairs at the end of the day. Then my father would inquire after the health of the tenant’s wife and his parents and the progress of his children, each of them by name, and ask whether the man needed new tools or a new goat. After a suitable time, the tenant would stand and bow, and, almost as an afterthought, offer his coins to his lord. My father would salute the man and wish him a good season, then turn his full attention to the next man and begin the dance again.

When Tomas and I got restless and speculated between ourselves on the dire consequences to the state of the universe should one of the tenants actually drink the glass of wine, our mother whispered that we were being disrespectful. For many years, I believed that she meant we were disrespectful to my father-a terrifying prospect that instantly corrected my behavior. Only later did I understand that our behavior was disrespectful to the tenants, who fed us, clothed us, and kept us in comfort in return for the use of the Comigor land and the protection of its lord.

When my father was away on campaign, my mother sat at the little table with Tomas and me beside her. Tomas had been awkward the first few years after his coming of age, when our mother was dead and our grieving father too drunk to do his duty, but he had grown into it. Until my banishment from Comigor, I had sat with him as always. To change the practice had been unthinkable.

I entered my sister-in-law’s bedchamber in great disturbance of mind. “Did you rest well, Philomena?” I said.

Philomena’s aunt lurked glowering on the far side of the bed, half hidden behind the bed-curtains. The duchess’s attention remained focused on her mirror. “I don’t know what was in my head this morning, Seriana,” said Philomena, smoothing a strand of her hair. “I should have told you to go immediately. My husband didn’t want you here and neither do I. I’ve only your word that he sent you.”

“You may accept what I say as truth or lies. But your son has a right to know how his father died, and there’s no one else to tell him of it.”

“For all I know, you may have killed Tomas yourself,” said Philomena, more from annoyance than conviction. “You were married to a sorcerer and conspired with traitors. My husband caught you at it and called down the law. You’re probably here for revenge.”

“I told you, I hold neither you nor your child responsible. Tomas is beyond knowing, so vengeance has no purpose. Nothing will bring back my son.” I pulled a small gray silk bag from my pocket and laid it on the bedclothes in front of Philomena. “I brought this for you. It’s not dangerous.” I smiled at the old woman, who had backed away from the bedside as if the little pouch might conceal a snake.

From the bag Philomena pulled out a lock of Tomas’s red-brown hair tied with a green silk thread. She twined it about her fingers thoughtfully.

“Let it make peace between us,” I said. “If for nothing else than this-your son is the Duke of Comigor. I’ve brought him the Comigor signet ring. I have no child to rival him, and I’m not likely to. This is the house of my father and his fathers before him for thirty generations. I’d not see it destroyed for pointless revenge.”

“I think that’s what Tomas was most angry about,” said Philomena. “That you would do what you did and risk bringing ruin to this decrepit pile of rock. I never understood it.”

My conviction that Tomas had been controlled by the Zhid, the ancient enemies of Karon’s people from the magical world across D’Arnath’s Bridge, was unsupported by physical evidence. But I would have wagered my life on it. “If Tomas had been allowed to think on his own, he would have known that I’d never take such a risk lightly. He might have tried to understand what I told him about my husband and his people. Whatever else, I think he believed me at the end. Will you summon the boy?”

Philomena tossed the lock of hair onto her coverlet and picked up her mirror, first polishing it with a lace handkerchief and then observing her pretty face twisted into a flirtatious pout. “He might not come. He was so much nicer when he was small and the nurse would bring him to us for an hour in the evening. We would dandle him about and then send him off to bed. Now he says such awful things when he’s angry, and he’s angry so often and for no reason.” She pursed her lips, pinched her cheeks, and smoothed the skin over her brows, but she also dispatched one of the maids to find the young duke and tell him his mama most urgently requested him to wait on her.