The Dark Lord of Crafting

The path that led from Williamsburg to the former baron's manor was little more than a wagon trail. It strayed around the patches of woodland, with no signs of any serious attempts at upkeep. It would have been too generous to describe it as a road, but the ruts were a clear indicator that we headed in the right direction.

Gastard, Esmelda and I were making the trip together, and we had left early enough in the morning that there wouldn't be any risk of not making it home before nightfall. Whatever Gent wanted from me, it shouldn't take all day.

Wildflowers lined the path, rose-purple, swaying in a chilling breeze. The scent was faint, but pleasant, with the faintest hint of mint. It wouldn't be long before the colors faded from the landscape. It would be my first winter in Plana.

"How cold does it get here?" I asked.

"Not cold at all," Gastard said. "Winters are harder in Flossmund."

He and Esmelda were both riding, while I had opted to go on foot. It wasn't a lordly thing to do, but I wasn't as comfortable in the saddle as they were. Besides, I'd already abandoned one horse before entering the Wastes, and I felt kind of bad about it. We'd never seen Bongo again after that.

"I'd like to see snow again," Esmelda said. "It's been a few years since we had any worth mentioning."

We followed the trail around an island of trees, the green of their leaves in the process of being swallowed by oranges and browns, as Gent's village came into view. A collection of thatched cottages and small, haphazard looking stone buildings.

The construction was probably fine, but compared to the perfect lines of crafted blocks, these buildings looked like piles of rocks to me. A woman looked up from tossing feed to a family of chickens beside her home. When she saw us, her face went through a series of changes.

At first, there was alarm, but when her gaze focused on me, she seemed to calm. She curtseyed as we rode around. Did she know who I was, or was she just being prudently polite to men in armor?

The path through the village was more pronounced, and there was even an attempt at proper cobbles as it approached the baron's manner. We received more curtseys and bows, though there were no shouted greetings, and none of the villagers attempted to engage us in conversation.

Most of them appeared more interested in the harpies than in us, pointing and whispering to each other. A pair of the oversized birds had followed us out of Williamsburg, and they certainly would have seemed ominous to anyone who wasn't used to seeing them around. Vultures were uncommon in the area, and they looked like vultures on steroids.

It was a quiet place; a few fields carrying what must have been the last harvest expected for the year, a handful of grazing cows. Men and women were hard at work with daily chores, though I heard the shrill voices of children playing not far off.

A little boy ran across the path ahead of us, intent on some mission known only to him, and Esmelda smiled. It was still early enough in her pregnancy that there had been no significant change in her appearance, but I had noticed her eyes lingering on the children in town before.

Would we have a son or a daughter? It didn't really matter, as long as we could keep them safe.

"And you're sure this isn't a trap?" I asked Gastard for the third or fourth time since leaving.

He grunted.

"Gent is too cautious to try anything rash. Godwod would not reward him for causing you harm."

I'd briefly considered bringing a troop of lillits with us as a show of force, but Esmelda and Gastard had both nixed the idea. For one thing, lillits weren't terribly intimidating, even well-armed, and it might have set the wrong tone.

Gent didn't need to think I was afraid of him.

The manor rose above the town, ivy creeping up its worn stone walls. Constructed on a hill overlooking the rest, the tall, arched windows above the entrance perched like a pair of watchful eyes. We hadn't sent word ahead of our arrival, so there was no one waiting to receive us.

We reached the door, and Esmelda slid down off of her horse, Fuzzu, while I took advantage of the bronze knocker set into the wood.

A woman opened it. She was almost as tall as Gastard, her long dark hair streaked with gray, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth suggesting she was in her forties. Her gaze widened as she took us in.

"You must be Sir William," she said, then blinked down at Esmelda, "and his lady, of course. It's good of you to come. My name is Mirella."

The woman beckoned for us to enter, though she didn't so much as acknowledge Gastard. Her dress was plain but fine, dark blue, with long sleeves, and fitted to match her slim frame. I didn't think she was a servant.

"Thank you," I said, "are you Gent's wife?"

"I am. Why don't you rest in the parlor while I fetch him?" She was a little on edge, though that was understandable given who had appeared on her doorstep unannounced, and she hurried out of the room.

"I'll watch the horses," Gastard said. "Call for me if I am needed."

The interior of the manor wasn't luxurious, though it struck me as somewhat aspirational. A pair of tapestries added warmth to the walls, pastoral scenes that looked like they may have spent some time in an attic in a previous life.

An iron chandelier, tinged with rust, hung unlit from the rafters, and what light there was filtered in through the pair of front-facing windows. The glass might have been the most expensive thing they owned. Mismatched furniture was arranged around a threadbare rug whose design was no longer clear. Trinkets rested on a mantle above a fireplace that, like the chandelier, was unlit.

As Esmelda and I sat, my eyes were drawn to a wooden carving that hung above the mantle. It depicted a rabbit leaping over a twisted tree, a stylization of Gent's family sign. It was good quality, and I wondered if my artisan Skill was developed enough to replicate it.

A girl peeked in on us from another room, a mop of curly hair and a pinched face. Esmelda waved at her, and she ducked out of sight.

"They seem friendly," I said, and Esmelda gave me a look.

"What?"

"Don't make this harder than it has to be," she said.

“Of course not.”

Mirella returned soon after to take a seat facing us. Her smile was chilly.

"My husband will join us in a moment. He's thrilled that you're here. There's so much for us to talk about."

As if in direct contradiction to her words, we spent the next several moments in silence. Esmelda broke it with a question about the girl we had seen, and Mirella warmed a fraction. It had been her daughter. She called her in to introduce herself.

"Elara," the girl said, curtseying neatly, "pleased to make your acquaintance."

An older woman entered with a plate of refreshments. Small wedges of cheese and thin-sliced, cured meats, along with a crusty loaf of bread that seemed to have been sitting around for a few days. We took a few samples. The cheese was tangy, and though the meat tasted like pure salt, it wasn't altogether bad.

I wasn't sure what I had been expecting out of this visit, but definitely not appetizers. Elara stayed around to snack, gazing curiously at the ruby in the pommel of my blade.

"That's spooky," she said. At a guess, she might have been about ten, and she seemed more comfortable with the idea of strangers in the house than her mother did.

"Don't be rude," Mirella said, then to me, "it's a lovely gem. Was it a gift from Lord Godwod?"

Did the Margrave give people expensive gifts? It had only been the other way around with us.

"No," I patted the sheath, which was hanging off the edge of my chair, “but she's right. It is spooky." Leaning toward the girl, I lowered my voice. "It has the soul of a demon trapped inside of it."

Mirella blanched, her gaze flickering to my eyes and then away. She hadn't commented on my appearance, so either they had been forewarned or were afraid to ask. Esmelda pinched my arm, frowning hard. Even though it was a factual statement, I had assumed they would have taken it as a joke, a ghost story for a child.

"It does?" Elara asked, her already wide eyes growing larger still.

"Of course not," Esmelda said quickly, "he's being foolish."

"Is that why—" Elara cut her question short at the clomp of boots in the hall, saving me from any further explanation.

Gent entered, slightly unsteady on his feet. His hair was uncombed, and his pockmarked face looked splotchy. He had put on a fancy doublet over his sleeping clothes, the mark of his family standing out in gold embroidery on his chest.

"So you've come," he said, before slumping into a chair beside his wife.

"I meant to drop by sooner," I said, "but we've been busy."

"Of course." Gent glanced around. The woman who had brought in the tray was hovering in the room's corner. "Wine," he told her, "for me and our guests."

It looked like he had already had some, or else he was recovering from a late night.

"When you asked for the Baron," Esmelda wasted no time in establishing the hierarchy, "what did you have in mind?"

Mirella cast a worried glance at her husband, whose face had darkened. But it wasn't as if he could correct the statement. Whatever his men thought, he was no longer in charge of this land.

"I'm told you brought gold out of my mine," he said. "We should discuss compensation."

Did he really think he was entitled to something, or was he just seeing how I would handle the demand? Esmelda responded for me before I had my thoughts together.

"It isn't your mine," she said. "It belongs to the Margrave, and the rights have fallen to Will."

"Now, perhaps," Gent searched for an angle, "but when you found the gold, I was still the lord here. A portion was owed to me, and never paid."

"All of that went into Godwod's sword," I said. "If you want some of it, you can take it up with him."

Gent practically growled, but his wife spoke over it.

"We understand the Margrave will do as he wishes. What my husband meant to discuss was his future role in Westmine." She laced one of her hands in Gent's, and the former baron sobered.

"That's right," he said. "You're new to the position. You need my guidance. We've done well here for ourselves, and I'm willing to help you do the same."

Considering our last encounter, it was an odd position to take, but I guessed he'd already concluded that the best thing he could do for himself was to go with the flow instead of antagonizing me. I doubted he had much to offer, and wouldn't have been interested in working with him even if he had.

"You're free to keep managing things on this side of the territory," I said, "but I don't want you in Williamsburg. The land belongs to me now, and I'll start sending someone to collect on my behalf."

"You can't do that." Elara put her hands on her hips. "Daddy's the Baron. You're supposed to pay him."

"Go to your room," Gent said, refusing to look at his daughter.

"But—-"

"Now!" So they hadn't told her. Elara left with tears in her eyes just as the maid was returning with another tray. She placed it on a side table and poured the wine from a carafe into pewter cups for the four of us. It was dead silent.

Gent grabbed his cup out of the woman's hands and drained it. Her shoulders were taut as she passed out the rest. I accepted my portion, but didn't drink. Neither did Esmelda.

"How much?" He asked.

"A third of the yield of the land," Esmelda said, "or equal value in silver."

"So be it," Gent had gone quiet, "you won't hold the title long, anyway."

"What do you mean by that?" His family seemed like good people, but if he was threatening me, I couldn't let the remark pass.

Mirella tried to take his hand again, but he shook her off. Gent's mouth stretched into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"You may want people to think those eyes make you a templar, but I know better. You're tainted. Godwod will toss you aside as soon as you outlive your usefulness."

Esmelda set her cup aside and stood. "I think this meeting is at an end," she said, nodding to Mirella. "Thank you for sharing your home with us."

"Of course," the woman stood as well, though Gent remained seated. "The Baron is welcome to visit whenever he likes."