Tilted Scales
By: Lance W. Card

    Shaking free of his inner thoughts, Domian Rickson pulled his heavy fur cloak tighter about the collar to ward off the cold autumn wind that cut through the quiet night and grabbed hungrily at his flesh. The experiences of his youth hadn't fled before his sword as the barbarians had learned to do. No, it had dug in, clinging to his innermost sanctum to be used as a blanket in the cold and lonely night. Now, as the ancient architecture of The City rose up before him, it returned like a flood boiling through a wash, no longer a blanket, but instead, a formidable force he had to battle through in order to continue. The closer he came to the looming gatehouse the more prominent the memories became, and the more he remembered why it was he had left in the first place. Times with his father listening to the debates in the forums about political matters that had imposed upon his life with such persistence, he'd dreamt about them. He'd never really enjoyed those experiences, he was a man of few words, and had always been that way. Lerimar, his younger brother, had always been the one with the silken tongue, but true to tradition, it had been Domian that had inherited the role of politician leaving his sibling the task of managing the Rickson's exterior provinces upon his inheritance. This had never sat well with Domian, who had developed into a giant of a man early in his youth and had always preferred the way of the sword to the manipulation of the forums; something that had eventually led to his escape from that life on the back of a horse in the dark of the night. And yet, with both of his parents dead, here he was, riding back to it in the dark of the night, on horseback, and to an uncertain reception years later. He was nearly home and as a result, was more cautious than he'd been the entire time he'd carried his sword against the rampaging Northmen.

    Domian frowned, his lips vanishing in a thin line, his weathered face creasing and darkening as though attempting to become one with the night. Their father had cultivated Domian for the position he was to have inherited, as a botanist cared for a particularly valuable plant. He'd spared no expense in his eldest son's education, had spent endless hours tutoring the boy and teaching him how to be a man-no, not just a man, but a powerful man. At first, Domian had relished the time spent hanging on his father's coattails, but then, as he grew older, he noticed how withdrawn Lerimar was becoming and he began to grow tired of the lectures. It had culminated in his sixteenth year. That was the year Domian had left.

    He was nearly thirty-five summers now and the city was an unfamiliar face filled with ghosts of recognition, haunting him from a dead past he was about to resurrect. As he drew reign in front of the towering bronze gates he wondered whether it was the chill breath of an eager winter that caused his spine to shiver, or if it was the anticipation of facing the past.

    “State yer name.” A white-bearded guard stepped from behind a thin wooden door to Domian's right, ducking below the low header and holding his conical helmet in place with his right hand as he did so. He held a simple wooden slate in his left hand, a piece of chalk between his thumb and index finger, and bore a sheathed sword at his waist.

    “Halier Maitheson,” Domian replied, sniffing and running the knuckle of his left hand beneath his nose. His dun mare stomped her foot and tossed her head, impatient for the warmth of the stable and the oats she'd receive, and perhaps a bit amused at her master's falsehood.

    “Business in The City?”

    “Just visitin'.”

    The guard peered up from his slate and studied Domian with a critical eye. “Travelin' a bit late, ain't ya?”

    “I knew The City was over the horizon,” Domian shrugged his massive shoulders. ”Didn't feel like sleeping on the rocks again.”

    “Where'd you come down from?”

    “The mountains,” Domian turned up his lip and spat off to his left. ”Now you gonna keep questioning me like an old lady eager fer gossip, or are ya gonna let me in?”

    “Keep yer sword in its sheathe, boy. Jus' doin' my job.” The guard gave Domian one last once–over before turning back to his door. He must have given a signal to those waiting inside that the large warrior didn't see because the gates began to part outward, opening with just enough room so as not to force the rider back from his stay. With a loud clanking sound the portcullis on the other side began to rise in direct imitation to the growing apprehension he felt.

    Never the type to wait for trouble to come to him, Domian spurred his horse forward with a click of the tongue and a flick of the reigns. He wound through the city slightly hunched, partly against the cold, but more to shroud his true bulk. A man his size caused talk and Domian preferred the quiet that a cloak of secrecy provided for the time being.

    The dun whinnied as they passed a stable and Domian leaned forward to pat her neck, “in time girl. We've a stop to make before hand.”

    The City was an ancient place, so old that its very name had been forgotten by all but the most learned. It had served as the capital of the kingdom for centuries and throughout the many disasters, the changes of rulership, and the wars that ripped through the land, it had stood as a symbol of the Realm's power and a bastion for the people. Domian knew from both the history lessons his father had required of him and the experiences of childhood that there were skeletons of the previous city incarnations beneath the beautiful structures of its current existence. Even the graveyard that he rode to was layered upon older cemeteries. His family tomb stretched five layers beneath the earth, filled with motifs of Kalim cradling images of his ancestors, sarcophaguses bearing the bones of his family, and statues depicting the greatest of the Ricksons'.

    Casually flinging his horse's reigns about the outstretched arm of a statue that stood adjacent to the tall, rectangular tomb, Domian filled his lungs with the sharp, cold air and approached the iron gate that secured the interior. A single iron padlock, a bit rusted from the weather and turning green about the crevices, locked it. Domian didn't hesitate, but took up a large stone from the frosted ground and smashed it against the lock, then again, and again until it finally broke free, the echoes of his aggression ringing through the cemetery proper. Dropping the stone, the giant of a man returned to his horse and retrieved a lantern from the pack. It took moments to light it and descend the stairs, leading him back in time to when he was a boy playing with his younger brother among the catacombs while his father made arrangements for his inevitable burial. It was something that all nobles had to attend to at one point or another, and Trennion Rickson was always a man of contingencies. He'd never liked leaving things undone and had always taught Domian to prepare for every event imaginable, for in the vicious circles of politics within the city forums it would be that one thing that you hadn't prepared for that would bring you down. So it was that Domian knew the exact room that his father and mother, Serian, had been laid to rest within, and it was but a few minute's walk before he stood in the archway staring upon the ornamental sarcophaguses, the orange glow of his lantern sparking from the metallic inlays.

    It was but a moment in eternity that he stood such, finally facing his parents after so many years of absence. Then, the big man gently set his illumination aside and practically glided to the side of his mother's grave. As was the custom of the time, her image had been carved into the surface in glorious respite. His rough fingers traced the contours of her stone incarnation's cheek and the emotion welled in his chest. Memories surged to the forefront of his mind, casting aside the curtains of time to play before him like the best of the social performances. Serian had always been the counter to Trennion's cool, detached nature. She was the light in their dark night, and had been the means of escaping the future he'd decided was not for him. His brow furrowed with the emotional pain and tears streak his face, running into his dark beard, though he did not sob. This time, eternity seemed too short.

    When Domian emerged from the tomb false dawn was gently urging the night to relinquish its hold on the land. The eldest Rickson returned to his steed and placed his forehead against the animal's broad snout. The horse, whom Domian had simply named Dun, puffed some air through her nostrils and held completely still, sensing her master's sorrow. When he had composed himself once again, Domian gave the animal a pat on her neck and unwound the reigns.

    “Now, Dun,” he whispered. “Now we will go find you some oats, and me some meat… and a very stiff drink.”

    The Rickson estate was located within an area of the city known as the Heart District, and it was through the cobblestone streets with the early morning mists wrapping about Dun's legs that change rode. A great stone wall stood guard against the ravages of the Rickson enemies. The exterior had once been kept clear of vines and in good repair, but as the long shadows cast by the morning sun accented the nicks and grooves of the old wall, Domian knew it had been a good while since any repairs had been attempted. Browning vines curled up the heights, grasping onto the dying wall like the hands of a murderer strangling its victim. This time, Domian knew that the cold feeling lodged in his belly was not from the frigidness of the previous night, nor the cool of the morning; it was from a great sensation of loss and the fear that his parents might not be the only thing removed from him.

There was one man at the gate when Domian arrived. The old man sat on a three-legged stool, his back against the rough stone of the entry, an earthenware jug set at his side where one finger was still hooked in the handle. The man was asleep, snoring loudly through a thick mustache. He wore a simple surcoat and a heavy cloak that had been wrapped around his body for warmth. A bill-hook polearm had been rested against the crook of the wall and the hinge of the gate within easy grasp, but Domian seriously doubted that the old man would present much of a danger in his current condition. This was another sight that added weight to the growing sadness within.

    “Get up, you ancient dog, before someone guts you to fill their wineskin.” The saddle creaked as Domian dismounted.

    "Wha—?” The old man snorted and pushed off from the wall, fumbling for the polearm, one eye squinted against the rising sun, the other watering profusely and noticeably puffy. “Why you got to go wake an old man? Too early for visit—by the Holy Light of Kalim! Lord Domian? Is that you, sir?”

    Domian stepped forward, arms outstretched and a rare, soft grin cutting across his weathered face. “It is, Galton, my old friend.”

    “By the Holy Light…”

    The two men embraced there in the street, the warm embrace of comrades–in–arms, and the smile that had been on Domian's face vanished in that clinch. He could feel the old man's ribs through his clothes and the once hail Galton seem frail and nearly lost to time.

    “What happened here, Galton?” Domian released his friend and stepped back, motioning at the wall and the tangled estates he could see through the ornate, iron gate the old soldier was supposed to be protecting.

    “Too much, young lord, and not enough. Not since you left.” Galton scratched at his mustache with a long, crooked finger and stared at Domian with his blurry eye as though gauging how much he should relate.

    “That tells me nothing, and yet fills me with dread.”

    “As it should, milord. It ain't my place to be doin' the tellin' though, begging your pardon, sir.”

    “No,” Domian gave the old man a gentle pat on the shoulder. “I don't suppose it is.” He took a deep breath. “What am I to face within, Galton? Surely Lerimar resides at the old hearth…” He was afraid that he was going to hear otherwise.

    “Aye, your brother still lives here, young lord.”

    “Well,” Domian drew himself up, towering over the hunched guard. “I suppose it is time to face the steel, as they say.” Giving the old soldier a critical stare, Domian continued, “You might want to lay–off the brew for the remainder of the day, old friend. Stay alert, and bring about a couple of the other guards. There's too few at the gate for my taste.”

    “I would, sir, but I'm all there is.” Galton looked as though his stomach pained him.

    “All?” Domian's eyebrows slowly climbed his forehead, mingling within the unruly strands of brown hair that drifted down over his tanned face. When Galton spread his hands wide in surrender to the situation, Domian's lips thinned and he gave his friend a nod. “Open the gate, Galton. I'm home now.”

    “Yes, sir.”

    The grounds were in a worse state than Domian had initially guessed from his view at the gate. The once–vibrant row of trees lining the walk were diseased and the gardens beyond were overgrown with brambles. At the head of the walk, where there had once been a glorious statue set amidst a tiered fountain there was a broken pedestal and dried pools filled with dead leaves. The manor had been built three centuries prior and was primarily made from dark brown stone and ruddy red wood. It stood an impressive three stories in height, wrapping about the grounds like a giant serpent. Over the years, the various heads of the house had added to the main manor eventually creating a monstrous declaration to the Rickson's greatness. Domian remembered the many chimneys calmly spewing forth smoke throughout the day and well into the night, but now only one chimney gave off a thin, weak stream of pale gray. The wide steps leading up to the door were swept with leaves and the wood about the manor appeared to be peeling its paint in protest to its condition.

    Setting his jaw, Domian dismounted, looking about for any sign of the stable hands that used to rush to a visitor's side. When none came, he lifted the saddlebags from Dun's back and loosened the bridle, freeing up her mouth so that she could scavenge.

    “It'll be but a moment, Dun,” Domian whispered as she tossed her head. “I'll be back to show you to your oats soon enough.”

    The large double doors weren't even locked. Domian stepped inside the main hall like a man treading across a grave. His heart raced as though he prepared for battle, and out of pure habit, his left right hand hovered near the hilt of his sword. Ghosts were singing through the rafters, only silenced when he shut the door behind him, robbing the room of breath. The once impressive décor of the main hall was muted for the dust and disrepair that hung oppressively about. It was stifling.

    Swallowing, Domian took the double–wide stairs that wound up the rear of the hall three at a time. The trepidation and worry he had felt was solidifying into a stern and stubborn preparedness. Whatever horror had caused this fall, he would face as the warrior he'd become, head on with weapon at ready.

    Three long halls later he pushed through a dark wood door and stepped into a room where a weak fire spattered and complained in the confines of a grand fireplace. His father's old office was richly decorated with portraits of the more prominent Rickson men and Domian's mother, books, ledgers, a large maple desk with a red finish and two extremely tall-backed chairs facing the fire. It had been here that Trennion had entertain his political allies and verbally fenced with his political enemies. Domian had stood at his father's arm on more than one of those occasions, and now, he stood facing the backs of those chairs, his eyes fixed on the white sleeve and thin, pale hand that rested on one of the arms.

    “You pirate,” came the whispered voice from the chair. “You black–hearted, worm… how dare you come here… now-ever!”

    Domian remained silent as a rail-thin young man rose up out of the chair, his black hair flying about his face as he turned to face the tall warrior, his green eyes flashing.

    “Get out! Get out before I am forced to do something you'll regret—if that is even possible.” The young man sputtered, his pale face turning florid.

    “I'm not leaving,” Domian replied, steel in his voice.

    “What? Not leaving? But you're so good at it.”

    “Shut your mouth, Lerimar.”

    “Or what Domian?” Lerimar held his hands before him in mock terror. “You'll kill me? You killed them after all. Maybe not with that monster of a blade you carry on your hip, but you killed them just as surely as if you'd butchered them on the battlefield!”

    Domian withdrew a bit, almost physically stepping into the hall. The force of his brother's words were like a Northman's blow, especially since Lerimar had obviously come to his own conclusions as to why Domian had left and they were certainly wrong.

    “I'll tell you once more, brother,” Lerimar spat the last word, his voice dropping to the raspy whisper he'd first used. “Leave now. This is no longer your home.”

    “By the fire's light, Lerimar!” Domian growled, having taken offense at the tirade despite his best intentions. “This home is neither yours, nor mine. Look at it. Take a look around, and you'll see. There's nothing of our home here.”

    “I've done what I could to maintain it.” The young man looked haggard, lost, his green eyes defocusing for a moment, his voice losing its edge. “There just wasn't enough… he didn't care anymore…” The fire returned and Lerimar's back stiffened. “Because of you and your selfishness. You brought down generations of a noble house when you stepped foot on your northward trail, and now you've the arrogance to come back and talk to me about loss as though it is solely my fault?”

    Domian blinked as his brother spun about, reaching behind the chair with a quick, fluid motion. The sudden movement was accented by a slight ringing sound as Lerimar turned to reveal a rapier, blade bared as its sheathe fell away. The blade wobbled a bit in reaction to the swift manner of its appearance, but Lerimar held his outstretched arm steady.

    “Now,” the younger Rickson said in that low whisper. “Get out.”

    Domian shook his head, just slightly, just enough to emphasize his words. “I ain't leavin', little brother. So you can sheathe that pig–sticker, or we can tussle. Choice is yours.”

    Staring at his brother from beneath his heavy brow, Domian could make out a slight tremble begin in Lerimar's hand. The brothers continued their stand-off for a few seconds longer before Lerimar dropped his blade to his side and raised his head defiantly.

    “Despite what you may believe, Domian,” he began through clenched teeth. “I haven't grown stupid. You've called my bluff. I won't attack you as you can still, undoubtedly, beat me, but you've proven to me, here, that what little power remains to House Rickson is in your hands.” Lerimar let loose with a weak chuckle. “Kalim knows, I never really held any to begin with. So, you've got it all. You had your adventures and now that you've grown tired of them, you've successfully returned to take what remains of our estates.” Then, as though becoming a different person, Lerimar Rickson jerked his head up and stared defiantly at his older brother once again. “Despite this… we are not family, you and I. That right was revoked when you slipped away into the night twenty–odd years ago.”

    Domian tensed slightly as Lerimar suddenly broke into stride, sweeping past his towering sibling and into the hall. The wayward Rickson listened to the retreating footsteps while staring into the fire until they were no more. Then, he sighed and hung his head like a man defeated.

    “You'll take some tea and feel better for it, milord.” The soft words were followed by the clinking of porcelain dishes and caused Domian's head to jerk upward, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword.

    Standing near his father's desk was an old woman, her gray hair done up in a bun tied off with a black ribbon. She was portly in a grandmother fashion and wore a long black dress with a white sash about her robust middle. Her skin was aged and withered, but she looked sweet about the eyes and Domian felt a wave of emotion wash over him as she turned smiling eyes upon him while she filled a white cup rimmed with gold.

    “Merith…” Domian whispered, a smile coming to his lips. “It is good to see you are still here. I was afraid all of the house staff had left.”

    “I have been in service to the Ricksons' since I was a child, milord. This is my home, and I'll not run off willie–nillie into the night when the family needs me so much.” She offered the cup to him, stepping forward a little with a slight limp that gave Domian cause to frown. “Now, don't fret so. An old woman has her ailments.”

    Taking the cup, the giant of a man gave her a nod of thanks and moved around to the other side of the desk, placing his left hand on the back of his father's old, leather chair. “What happened, Merith? Here, I mean.”

    “Well,” she began, working at the tray to organize everything she'd just used in such a fashion as to balance it better for carriage. “Quite a bit, milord, but none of it really the young lord's fault. And none yours either, I might add.”

    “Fault, or not, it doesn't answer my question.”

    Merith gave him a sharp look from the corner of her eye. “Always the impatient one, you were. Old women have their ailments and are set in their conversational ways, so you'll have to practice your patience some if you want to hold conference with me, milord. I'm too old to break habit now.”

    Domian hid his grin behind a sip before giving her a nod, “You cantankerous old woman… I've missed you.”

    “As well you should,” She sighed and rested her hands on the desk. “You aged me so when you left, young lord. We were all so worried about you. Your mother, Kalim embrace her, was insistent that you'd be able to care for yourself, but deep down I witnessed the concern, I did. She'd fret at night, overly so, with young Lerimar. Not that she didn't pay no attentions to him as it were, but overly so mind you, once you left. It angered your father a bit, I think. He never took it out on your mother, though. No, Kalim forgive him, but he found that source of release in your brother. Last chance for the Rickson line, he'd say, and then he'd berate young Lerimar for not having the education you had… and he'd curse you for squandering what you'd been given.”

    Domian remained quiet, feeling the warmth of the tea wash his face in the thin steam that rose from the liquid. He watched the old woman stand so broken, a force of will keeping her on her feet, and he stole away against the sadness the continued to fill him. “That wouldn't have been nearly as bad were it spread over time, but when you left, Lord Trennion took to drinking. It made him mean, milord, not to speak ill of your father, great man that he was, but the spirits made him mean. The first year was the hardest. No word from you, and your mother struggled to act as a barrier between your father's wrath and Lerimar, him being not quite yet a man.” She sighed again. “Forgive me, milord, I don't mean to tell you this to pass any of the blame… none at all. Your mother explained to me her reasons for helping you leave that night. You see? I stumbled upon her returning from the duty and I believe the guilt of going against her husband's wishes was already beginning to devour her. She needed someone to talk with and I was the person. I don't blame you none, nor does this old woman blame anyone else… it's a hard thing to watch a family you love dissolve so, is all.”

    “I cast no fault your way, Merith.”

    “You're kind, milord.”

    “When did they pass?” Domian's voice was low and filled with respect for the dead.

    “Your mother, Kalim rest her, passed six years after your departure. I think the strain of her new way of living finally caught up with her. She fell ill the winter of 1308 and went to bed for a good two months. She never regained the strength to see the spring, milord. Lord Trennion fell further into his drink then, milord. He sent Lerimar to a school for lawyering and washed his hands of it. He wouldn't visit the forums no more. He wouldn't even see anyone. Lord Tregorian tried for many a year, but finally even he stopped calling in. The house became a place of sorrow then, truly it did, with the passing of Lady Serian and all. It wasn't a place where none liked to be. Staff started leaving then, but it didn't really get hard until Lerimar returned from that school.

    “He'd changed, milord. He wasn't the bright, happy young man who played in the courtyard pretending to be a knight no more. No, milord, he was pretty near to that pale figure you just encountered, though the years since have done him no favors. Your father hadn't seen to the family affairs in that time. Just sat away his days in here, staring at the painting of your mother and mumbling into his drink. He slept near to midday, and then he couldn't be seen without a drink in hand. Drank the stores dry, he did, and then when the money stopped coming for neglect of the businesses, he expensed property to pay for it.”

    Domian forced himself to keep staring at the narrator of his family's downfall despite a real urge to look away. It was his self-imposed punishment.

    “The physicians said that the liquor killed him—poisoned his insides, they said right before the funeral took place. It took the spirits near to twenty years to kill him, but I swear to Kalim he was dead at least fifteen years before his soul left his body. His death, as bad as it was to lose him, wasn't the worst of it, though. No, the old lord hadn't had anyone to answer to as far as the books were concerned and had squandered your family's fortune on distractions. When poor Lerimar took head of the house he was left with very little to operate off of. The guards, they don't have no pay, and without pay, they don't work. The remaining house staff was just as quick to walk away. Only me and poor, old Galton stayed on, and we're just two old people working our way towards Kalim's Embrace. Try as we might, there's not much we could do to keep the place up, milord, and I swear on my own grave that we have tried.”

    “I believe you,” Domian whispered, finally allowing himself to peer out the windows behind the desk and frown at the false cheer in the fall sunshine. “So, there are no guards?”

    “None, milord.”

    “How has Lerimar defending this land?”

    “He's contracted with the House for what aid they are willing to offer.”

    Domian's frown deepened. He knew which House Merith was referring to, and House Mosfin never provided anything to anyone without a hitch, not even their own membership.

    “Thank you for the information, Merith.” Domian returned his gaze to the old maid and gave her as soft a smile as he could muster. “It has been invaluable.”

    “I live to serve, milord,” she answered, bowing her head a little. “Now, if my lord will excuse me, I've other chores to see to… chores such that this old body can handle.”

    Domian watched her leave through a side door as quietly as she came in, despite her limp the saucers and cups remaining on the tray never made a sound. It brought back memories of a much younger Merith catching Lerimar and he with their hands red with mischief, so quiet was her step that they never had much of a chance of realizing they'd been caught until it was too late. Despite the negative connotation the memory may have had, it was the happiest Domian had experienced since returning home, so he took it to bed with him and slept the fitful sleep of a troubled man.

    For two days the Rickson prodigy avoided each other. The manor was large enough that it took very little effort, but small enough that there was a definite pall that hung in the air. Merith and Galton would walk on egg shells whenever they were near Lerimar, and would visibly relax around the older brother. This caused Domian no end of concern as he remembered Lerimar being a favorite among the house staff.

    On the morning of the third day of his homecoming, Domian stood peering out of his slightly frosted bedroom window while finishing his morning regime contemplating how to break this stalemate between him and his brother when he caught sight of a single rider coming up the lane. The rider's long black hair swept out behind him, and despite the chill of the morning his arms appeared bare to the elements. Since he'd arrived, Domian hadn't seen anyone come or go, so the arrival was more than a little interesting to him. As the visitor dismounted near the foot of the stair, Domian finished his dressing for the day by belting a long-bladed, long-hilted sword to his waist. Then, the older Rickson was moving to intercept.

    He was too late. When Domian reached the foyer it was empty except for the shafts of light that penetrated the meager attempts night made to still linger within the manor. The large warrior paused at the top of the stairs, hand on the smooth oak banister, and then gave a quick nod. The office of his late father was his next destination.

    This time, the office door was closed and a low murmur came from within as the conversation seeped through the space between the doors and the floor. It wasn't enough that Domian could make out what was being said, but he could tell the baritone of the visitor from the tenor of his brother, and despite his curiosity, Domian Rickson wasn't the type to put his ear to the door. Instead, the large man rested his back against the planed surface of the wall boards and folded his arms across his massive chest. He knew that should he enter during a business discussion Lerimar's anger towards him would just be amplified, and if the meeting was nothing more than two friends getting together, well, Domian didn't want to interfere there either. So, he waited, but he didn't have to wait long.

    The door to the office opened but a few moments later.

    “Remember, Lord Rickson,” the baritone said without having exited the room yet. “Payment is expected no later than the end of this sevenday. Have I made myself clear?”

    “Crystal,” Lerimar's answer was cool, like that of a man having sat through a lecture.

    “Good,” said the visitor, obviously pleased with himself. Then, he exited, turning to face the grim visage of a bearded, somewhat wild–haired warrior.

    Their eyes met; smoldering green like the deepest, darkest wood squaring off against the near golden brown lit by an undeniable intelligence.

    “Domian?” The man asked, his brow coming together to form fine lines just above the ridge of his rather perfect nose.

    “Jerion Millins…” Domian practically whispered the name, though it wasn't out of respect, it was for the effect, like the low growl of a wolf just before the leap.

    “I—,” Jerion appeared slightly flustered, his right hand straying to the hilt of the dirk. “I hadn't realized you'd returned.”

    Domian favored the guest with a slight tip of his head.

    “What has it been? Nearly twenty years?”

    “That's about right,” Domian acknowledged.

    “Well,” Jerion wet his lips with a quick flick of a thin, pink tongue. “It is good to see you. I wish that I had more time to find out what you've been up to in all of these years of absence, but I'm afraid I've some pressing engagements.”

    The large Rickson lord motioned his dismissal with a wave of the hand, and watched as the Veteran's Guild thug took large strides in order to remove himself from the premises as soon as possible. Once he'd gone, Domian turned to look in the office and met the rather fiery stare of his younger brother. With a sigh, like a man resigned to death, Domian stepped inside.

    “How bad is it?” He asked, preferring the direct approach to any dalliances of polite conversation.

    “To what are you referring?”

    “The estate, man! To what else would I be referring?”

    “I'd thought perhaps you'd come to discuss my hatred of you, but obviously that is a conversation you wish to put off until another day.”

    “I'll face down that sword when the time is right, Little Brother.”

    “Stop calling me that. I foreswore our connection years ago.”

    “You can swear off anything you'd like, Lerimar, it doesn't change the fact that we're blood. Now, how bad is it?”

    Lerimar stood up from behind the desk and turned to the window, putting his back to his older brother and standing as square-shouldered as he could. “I don't see why you're taking an interest in family affairs now, after all these years, and I'd appreciate it if you'd stop. This has been my duty ever since father passed on, and I don't need your assistance any more now than I did then.”

    Domian bore holes into his brother's back for a moment before answering. “You'll tell me, if only to get me to leave you alone.”

    It was but a moment later when Lerimar's shoulders drooped. Domian knew defeat when he saw it and felt a little bad for having forced what could be considered another failure upon his younger brother.

    “The estate is broken, Domian,” Lerimar forced the statement through clenched teeth. “Father spent it all and I've been living on borrowed promises for years.”

    “What of the orchards? The farms? What of the land deeded the Rickson line by the Kings of Old?”

    “What of them? They are barren, sold, or leased to pay for debts… or… or absconded.”

    “Absconded?”

    “Yes, Domian,” Lerimar turned to face him, a little color touching his pallor. “When you have no troops to command, you can't really keep people from taking what they want.”

    Domian held up a hand to calm Lerimar down. “Which lords have taken advantage of this?”

    “Which have not?” Lerimar sighed. “I've tried everything within the bounds of the law to retain that which was the Estate's. I've gone to debate advances within the forums until anytime I ask for the floor I can hear the groans from the assembly. There is nothing more I can do—”

    “Not you, no,” Domian dropped his hand to his sword hilt for emphasis. “But I can. The Ricksons have a sword to command once again, Lerimar, now who are these lords that would take advantage of House Rickson?”

    Jerion Millens rode with great haste to the palace of his lady, the Countess of Fengray. His encounter at the Rickson manor was more than a little disturbing and he knew that the Countess would need to be informed of this new problem immediately. Normally, when he visited the lady, he took great pains to make sure he was presented with at least some semblance of nobility, even though his family's line had never actually held title and were nothing more than farmers in the southern fields, living among the many faceless people of the Hollows. It was all about appearance for him. On the field of battle, the tattoos helped put fear into his enemy's hearts, and when he was about his second favorite pastime, it helped hurry the process of delivery, but now he was almost embarrassed of his attire as he approached the spectacularly ornate ironwork that made up the gate to the Fengray property.

    “Jerion Millens of the Veteran's Guild to see her grace, the Countess of Fengray,” He announced as his lathered horse came to a stop in front of the gate guards.

    “Are you expected, sir?” One of the guards, a burly man with a look about him that would never have insinuated manners, asked.

    “Not at the moment, but it is important that I speak with her.”

    “We'll send a message, sir.”

    There was no arguing it. Jerion sat astride his black mare contemplating the ramifications of his news. Lerimar had been an easy target after his father's death; practically the whole of the city had known it. A few of the bolder and less scrupulous lords and ladies of the city had moved quickly to grab up the more valuable stock the Rickson's had left. The Countess of Fengray was not one of those that had immediately moved in, and from what Jerion could tell, she had finally succumbed to the temptation only after her husband had died and left her with a small amount of debt. Jerion didn't know the details of her situation as well as he'd like, for he found her more than reasonably attractive and had entertained ideas of a romance blossoming between them on more than one occasion, but he did know that she struggled with money from time to time and that's why she'd employed his services. Now, with Domian back, it meant that his work where Lerimar was concerned would suddenly become more challenging, and possibly even end outright. This could lead to an end in his relationship with the Countess, and even more to Jerion's dislike, a rather hefty black mark on his own reputation. The more he considered what Domian's existence meant, the more he fell into a dark mood until, when the guard who'd been sent as a messenger returned, Jerion Millens was in a foul mood altogether.

    “The Countess is having tea with guests at the moment, but has given you access to the garden should you wish to wait.”

    “By the Witch's Fire!” Jerion cursed under his breath, casting his gaze about as though he could find a better way to gain the Countess's immediate attention, he finally nodded. “I'll wait.”

    There was a small dirt road that separated the two lodges which, in turn, were nestled among the neatly placed cherry trees of the orchards. Domian sat astride Dun and stared down the stretch of pale earth leading to these cottages, looking for signs of life. He wore his full war regalia, a chain shirt underneath a heavy, dark green wool tunic and a dull, scratched, and dented steel helmet. His boots were reinforced with steel plating, and his breeches were heavy with leather and steel studs. Strapped to his waist was his large sword, across his back an even larger one, and tucked in his right boot, a long, thin–bladed dagger. The air frosted with every breath he and Dun let out, and the chill felt like a weight in and of itself. It was the few moments of calm before things erupted in a storm of chaos… something Domian was very familiar with.

    Squeezing Dun's ribs with his knees, Domian sent the animal trotting forward. He'd chosen the building on the right for its strategic value, and his approach wasn't meant to be quiet. As he'd predicted, even though he hadn't seen anyone outside the building prior to his approach, the sound of his horse, and the slight rustle of his gear, eventually drew a couple of men from each building. On the left, there were two dressed in browns and yellows. Only one of them wore a helmet, the other carried a small spear. To the right, both men wore the red livery of the Veteran's Guild, and they each had swords attached to their belts. Domian turned his horse into their courtyard and dismounted. As he turned from Dun's bulk, he drew the sword on his back, which sent the two men scrambling into defensive positions.

    Domian didn't wait. He took three long strides forward, arched the blade back and struck with great force. The first target had freed his sword from its sheathe by then, but couldn't' do much more than redirect the blow as their blades met with a mighty clang. As the second man danced around to flank Domian, the Rickson lord made to bring his great two-handed weapon up from the downward stroke as though he were attempting to cut across the man's stomach and into his chest, but at the knees he changed the direction. The move undercut the defensive posture of the Vet soldier, slicing the flesh and muscle above the man's knees. The soldier grunted with pain and fell downward, the strength suddenly gone from his legs.

    The second soldier tried at that moment to strike out at his huge assailant, but the sword cut Domian had just executed put his blade in an easy path to intercept, and again, blades rang out in the crisp evening air. Out of the corner of his eye, Domian saw two more of the liveried soldiers come rushing from the lodge, but he filed their positions away for later consideration and continued his focus on the two he immediately faced. Reversing his stroke again, Domian caught the second soldier's blade on his own, forcing it aside and drawing the man in towards his wounded sword-brother. His stroke continued past the steel of his enemy and took the helmet head from the wounded soldier's body, sending it tumbling through the air. The second soldier gasped, then proceeded to pummel Domian's sword with a flurry of quick strikes that forced the giant of a man to step back three times before he found an opening.

    As the blade was retracted in order for the Vet troop to bring down once more, Domian thrust forward with a double-hand punch that still gripped the hilt of his great sword. He felt the noseguard of the man's helmet bend under the force of the blow and watched in satisfaction as the man's head tilted sharply back. Then, in one fluid movement, Domian brought his hands back towards his hips, drawing the blade down across his opponent's right collarbone and chest. He finished the move by reversing the direction of his stroke and ramming the thick blade of the weapon into the Vet soldier's gut where it ended by protruding from his back. Domian released the blade, ignoring the fact that the man never fell, propped up as he now was by the sword through his stomach and the hilt digging into the ground.

    Just as the other two men reached him, Domian had retrieved his other sword from his waist. He met their desperate attacks with ease and precision, batting away one sword to duck under another. Then, he caught the tip of one blade across the fleshy part of his shoulder and fiery pain lanced down his back. Grimacing, Domian used his free hand to grab the wrist of the offender, dragging him off balance and spinning him into the other guard. With a powerful overhand stroke, the tall warrior removed the man's arm at the elbow, then used the severed limb to club him on the side of the head. With his grotesque second weapon in hand, the older Rickson proceeded to beat and slice at the two remaining guards until they both lay at his feet, still as only the dead can be.

    Breathing heavily, Domian peered at the lodge from underneath his low brow. He remained that way, standing in the blood-muddied yard until his breathing had evened out. Then, as though realizing for the first time that he still held the arm, he flung it aside and with purposeful strides entered the building.

    There were six others inside; workers, all of them. None of them had any weapons on them, and all looked absolutely terrified to see this giant spattered with blood, darkened sword still in hand, enter their lives. It was as though they were living through a nightmare, frozen to the ground their feet touched, unable to respond.

    “Get out!” Domian growled, the rumble coming from deep in his chest. The men blinked. “Get out now!”

    There was a scramble of feet, the second command having broken through their fears, and then the room was empty and eerily quiet but for the cackling fire. Within moments, Domian Rickson had set the building ablaze, his massive silhouette striding from the fiery carcass of someone else's property like a demon walking out of Hell. He paused at Dun's side, calming her by stroking her nose. Then, he pulled up the edge of the saddle blanket and cleaned his blade with slow, methodical swipes. When he had cleaned his weapon, retrieved his other sword and cleaned it as well, the elder Rickson mounted Dun and turned her towards the other lodge, which now had a total of ten people standing out front: four guards, six workers.

    “This property,” Domian rumbled at them from the back of his horse, motioning at the orchards behind them. “Was once the domain of House Rickson. It is now again the property of House Rickson. Do I make myself clear?”

    There was a slight pause as the guards looked at each other, then they came to a consensus and each, in turn, drew their swords and placed them on the ground in front of them.

    “You continue to work as you have been,” Domian continued, acknowledging their offering with a nod. “You'll deliver your goods to the market on time, and the profits shall be delivered to the Rickson Estate by your headmaster in the usual fashion. If you are late, or there is indication of skimming, I will return. As for you,” he indicated the guards. “What colors do you normally wear?”

    “We used to wear the purple and gold, milord.” One answered in a rather high voice for his size. “Then, the pay stopped and they came along. We've been pulling a smaller stipend from working under them, but it was payment.”

    “You'll don the purple and gold again, and do a better job of protecting these lands than they did, understood?”

    “Aye, milord.”

    “Mind me, I will return if necessary.” Domian turned his horse back the way he'd come. “Burn this unholy vision in your heads, my friends, for it will visit you should you so much as breathe the wrong way.”

    And with that, Domian Rickson spurred Dun away from the cackling laughter of the burning lodge, leaving the carnage, and the fire, for the new Rickson help.

    The Countess of Fengray was a patient woman. She'd been forced to marry at a young age to a man she'd not even found attractive. The Count of Fengray had been a brute and a boor, both socially and in the bedchamber. She'd taken it to be in her best interest to dose the man with small amounts of poison gained through shadowy means until he'd passed away from apparent heart failure. Unfortunately for her, she hadn't been quick enough and he'd left her with a few too many debts. She'd used her wiles, and at first that had seemed to work, but she could only stomach so much from her back, and eventually she learned to suggest at a romantic encounter, but stave off the advances of a would-be collector long enough to figure out a better way to deal with him. This is how she'd come to know Jerion and the Veteran's Guild. There were fees involved, as there were with just about anything, but they were substantially less than the money her late husband had owed, so she kept paying the Guild and they kept doing her bidding. It was a rather tedious endeavor to manage the great warriors of the Guild, but she'd successfully done so for over a year now, and this Jerion Millens was one of the easier to manipulate. Still, his interruption of her tea party was more than a little irritating, so she made him wait. And wait. Until long after the socialites she'd been entertaining had gone and she could no longer find excuses to keep him in suspense.

    With a light shawl wrapped about her shoulders and open at the neck so that her ample cleavage could work to her advantage, the Countess of Fengray glided onto the cobbled path of her estate's garden like a blossom caught in the wind. Jerion turned at her approach, rising from the bench he'd planted himself on and she saw that despite the anger he'd been harboring at being made to wait so long, the vision of her in her white gown was enough to change the fire of rage to the fire of lust.

    “My dear sir,” she murmured sweetly, a soft smile playing at the corners of her full, painted lips. “I do hope it wasn't an inconvenience, you waiting such as you did, but I did have other affairs I needed to tend to.”

    “It was not, milady,” Jerion accepted her outstretched hand and hovered his lips just above her knuckle for a moment before reluctantly releasing his grip.

    “So,” she purred. “To what do I owe this call?”

    “I have some very grave news concerning certain business arrangements you've asked me to oversee, milady.”

    The Countess could smell the sweat of his horse on him and struggled to keep the disgust from her face and voice, “and what would this distressing news be?”

    “The return of Domian Rickson, milady.”

    The Countess shrugged her delicate shoulders. “And why should that concern me? I know nothing of this man.”

    “No, you wouldn't, and I've not seen him for years myself, milady.” Jerion cleared his throat. “Now that he's here, we'll see the Rickson line become verdant on the vine again, of that I'm certain.”

    “And?”

    “And this means that you'll no longer be able to prey upon the young Rickson… milady.” Jerion offered a slight bow by way of apology for his brashness.

    “Such an ugly word, prey.” The Countess frowned. “So, deal with this Domian. Is that not what I pay you and your Guild for?”

    Jerion flashed a nervous smile and she thought that for a moment he looked handsome enough to ignore the smell of a horse stall on him.

    “It isn't that easy, milady. There are few within the Guild that would cross a blade with Domian. He's been away, but among those of us who carry the sword; his reputation has always been near.”

    “Reputations are often gorged by the need for gossip.” The Countess chastised Jerion with a pert pout. “You'd have me believe that a warrior as great as yourself fears this Domian Rickson?”

    “Fear?” Jerion's eyes flashed. “Nay, lady, I don't fear him. I respect him. He's been away these past twenty years to the north, doing battle with the Northmen and the hordes of evil that roam those hills and mountains. But he's not been among the forts, no, he's spent time with mercenaries.”

    “How vile.”

    “Vile, true though it may be for the civilized folk of The City, it is a different standing among those who have served along the border. The mercenaries aren't well-liked, but they are valuable assets to border commands. They take the assignments most would consider suicide. They travel deeper into the North than any sane man of The City, and those that return are well-known as hard men.”

    “So,” the Countess continued to pout as though she were a child being denied a sweet pastry. “You'll not take care of this for me?”

    “Milady, were our operation legitimate I'd stand before the Rickson's with a magistrate on one flank and a cadre of Knights on the other demanding that they make good on their debt, but in the situation where your demands on the Rickson Estate are… shall we say, less public?” It was Jerion's turn to shrug. “Word will spread that Domian has returned, and any action we take against him will be announced just as publicly.”

    The Countess of Fengray sat upon the bench, motioning for Jerion to follow suite. Leaning forward, she forced herself to get near the man and whispered, “Then you must act with all haste so that word of his return does not spread before word that one of his old enemies caught up with him does.”

    “Lord Rickson,” Merith's old voice lifted his head from the ledger he was going over. “There is a Lord Perone here to see you, milord. He says he doesn't have an appointment—”

    “That's fine, Merith. Show him in.” Domian rose up from his father's desk and walked over to the bookshelf, replacing the heavy book from where he'd found it. Boring work, accounting, but he had to know more precisely what the Ricksons could claim before he made any further moves, and since Lerimar had opted to spend the day at the forums, that afforded Domian with all the freedom he needed in the office.

    “A beard… how droll.”

    Domian turned and threw a scowl towards the speaker, a man about as old as he was with wavy blonde hair and a chiseled face. “And you without a woman on each arm… how… strange.”

    The other laughed and made haste to cross the room, both arms outstretched. “Domian!”

    “Eian!”

    They embraced as comrades in arms, patting each other heartedly on the back.

    “I thought the moon would fall from the sky before you gave the wilds of the North up, old friend.” Eian Perone released the bigger man and stepped back to get a better look at him. “Though it would appear you've brought more than a little of them home with you.”

    Domain grinned, “They'll never leave me, Eian. What brings you here this early? Aren't you normally asleep still?”

    “Ah, but rumors fly on the winds of discontent, and it is upon these winds that my surely manservant drifted into my room this morn. I couldn't call myself a friend knowing that you were nigh upon my very doorstep and me still lying with linen.”

    “What winds, precisely?”

    “Something akin to you burning a poor milkmaid from her hovel and ravaging her before leaving her to raise your ill-begotten offspring. Nothing important.” Eian began to idly run his finger along the titles of the books in the bookshelf. “And here I'd always thought I was the more theatrical of the two of us, but with you making the entrance you did, I'm afraid it will be a long time before I can upstage you.”

    “Does that milkmaid happen to reside on the Fengray Estate?” Domian returned to the desk and sat on its edge, watching his old sword brother with an amused look on his face.

    “Mmm,” Eian acknowledged. “Though I haven't verified, I believe that was the just of it.” Eian turned, quite suddenly and frowned at his friend. “I did try, you know. Politics… I could only do so much for him.”

    “I believe you, my friend. I believe you.” Domian sighed and shook his head. “I wish I could get inside his head, know how to mend that which I've inadvertently broken. Then, the pair of us…”

    “You'd be mighty indeed.” Eian folded his left arm across his belly and rested his right elbow on it, and tapped his lip thoughtfully, considering the new topic of Lerimar Rickson. “Well, there is little I can do about his logic, but I will tell you this: he has taken to spending an awful lot of time with Feronant Domar-the youngest son of House Domar—”

    “I remember him,” Domian frowned as well. “A prankster, no?”

    “Yes, he was, and not much has changed, though his pranks are now more of a verbal nature. The other he spends time with is Rowen Tregorian.”

    “Tregorian? Really?”

    “Aye, my friend, a Tregorian, though it'll not do you much good. That Rowen is a powerhouse of manipulation. He's been trained at the game, and oh, does he love it. Mastered it to near perfection he has, and he won't play for another unless it is bound to profit him, House Tregorian, and House Mosfin… in that order.”

    “Still,” Domian smiled thoughtfully.

    “There is one other,” Eian smiled again and pointed at his friend as though to drive the next thing he said home. “About three years ago, before things became, well, as bad as they are, he was courting young Katlyn Bromar.”

    “You don't say,” Domian cocked his head to one side. “When did it end?”

    “I believe your younger brother felt that he was too far beneath her station, for it was but a few occasions and as I understand it, only a sparse amount of correspondence. Still, I believe she was sweet on him, pallor and all.”

    “Eian, you have provided me with a number of possibilities to think upon, but I have one more favor to ask of you.”

    “Name it, friend, for I still owe you for my life, and would be a poor friend indeed if I did not at least repay you that.” Eian Perone's smile broadened and was accented by a wink.

    Five men stood in the shadows of the night enshrouded street like shades hovering over their graves. They each wore grim expressions, carried various weapons, and watched the street that ran along the dilapidated stone wall with fervent interest. They had their orders, they had their assignment, and none of them knew what they were in for.

    Domian was in a terribly foul mood as he wound his way home through the streets of The City. He was on foot this night, figuring he'd need the walk to cool his temper after the meeting he had asked Eian to schedule. Political gatherings of any nature tended to leave him in a foul mood, and at the moment he longed for nothing more than to bruise his knuckles on some poor sod's skull. This, he'd ruled out. He was trying to present an image, to sell himself as a respectable citizen ready and willing to put the support of his house behind one claim or another. Which, he didn't particularly care so long as it presented House Rickson with a steady source of income, some allies, and an opportunity to dig their heels in and make themselves respectable once more. Going around punching people in the face tended to do the exact opposite. So, Domian Rickson was in a very bad mood when the thugs attacked him.

    The fall night sky was crystal clear, the stars gleaming like many eyes in the firelight, and it was cold. Cold enough to drop snow had Mother Nature been so inclined. Domian was preoccupied as he strolled down the street, blowing into his hands to maintain warmth. He didn't even see the ruffians launch themselves from the cloak that the alley provided until the first cudgel struck. Searing light blinded him, staggering him, almost sending him to his knees. Then the next attack struck, drawing a thin line of blood across his left shoulder. Stumbling under the force of the initial blow to his head, Domian inadvertently saved himself a crippling wound to the knee. Instead, the dagger was thrust into his thigh causing the big man to groan with pain. Another club struck him in the kidney, knocking the breath from his lungs and arching his back in time to receive yet another blow to the chest. It was then that Domian went down. First one knee, then the other hit the cobblestones. Then his left hand grabbed cold stone to steady himself.

    “Finish him.” The voice was as cold as the night, without inflection, and all business. Domian grimaced against the pain that rode through him like a herd of horses and blinked through the darting motes of light that tried to block his vision. When the sound of a sword being unsheathed rang through the night and the charcoal black boot fell into his vision, Domian struck back.

    His right hand snaked out and snatched the ankle, and with a great tug Domian pulled the man's feet out from underneath him. There was a heavy smack, the repeated clang of metal settling against stone, and a long string of curses spewed forth from multiple mouths. Though he hadn't recovered his full vision, Domian located the sword and before the others could react, he'd dove for it, rolling onto his back and then shakily to his feet, sword stretched forth before him… and he snarled a fierce, feral snarl that raised the hackles of the men he faced.

    “C'mon then!” A voice to his right called. “There's only one of him.”

    Domian saw their shape, saw their form, and knew they were dead even though they didn't. As they rushed him he spun out to his right, not too quickly as the blow to his head still had him reeling, but quick enough that he kept the majority of his attackers on the outside circle, and only two of them close enough to worry him. The sword that he held was shorter and lighter than he preferred, but Domian had served for years on the frontier and even dizzy and disoriented he felt the balance of the weapon and made it a part of him.

    The dance was done with an uneven step. Domian would stagger occasionally, darting back and forth between his assailants and slashing with the sword only to retreat to a better position. He fell one of them almost immediately, putting the sword into the man's throat, more by luck than skill, but he didn't complain. The second nearly stuck him with a sword fairly similar to the one Domian had procured, but the big man stepped inward, catching the man's arm on his own, which was slick with his own blood. In answer Domian stepped on the man's foot then pushed against his chest with all of his might. The man fell backward, trying to maintain a straight fall, but unable to compensate for the shove to his left shoulder. There was a sickening cracking sound followed by a pop and then the man was screaming, screaming for Kalim… for mercy… it ended in a gurgle as Domian nearly removed his head.

    Staggering to the left, he held the sword out in front of him, looking like a drunk man who'd fallen down the stairs. The remaining three would be assassins hovered at the edge of his attack range, uncertainty the only light that shown in their eyes. Here was a man that they'd nearly lain down with their first attack gracelessly moving about, but who had seemingly dispatched two of their number with relative ease.

    “Come on!” Domian growled, spitting bloody spittle at their feet. “Remember, you asked for this.”

    One of the men shook his head and backed away, sheathing his sword when he was certain he was out of range of any attack. The others followed, if a bit slower, and when they were all a good few steps away they turned and ran.

    “Cowards!” Domian hurled the sword after them. “Curs! Come back and die like real men!” But his cry fell on a silent night.

    Stumbling forward, carried through by the momentum of throwing the blade, Domian touched the back of his head and winced. His hair was matted with blood, his left arm stung, the strength was quickly leaving his leg, and he was sure he'd at least bruised a rib, if not broke one. Then, through the pain, a smile broke his lips followed by a deep chuckle, which, in turn, was immediately followed by a wince and moan.

    “My Lord Rickson?” It was Galton's voice, filled with concern.

    “Good eve, Galton,” Domian winced again as he chuckled. “You look a might better than I, I'd imagine.”

    “By Kalim's Light, what happened, milord?” Galton's old arms wrapped about the younger man's middle, allowing him to lean on his aging frame if he so desired.

    “Some men,” Domian swept his hand at the two corpses lying nearby. “They thought they'd get the drop on me.”

    “Two of them?”

    “Five… I think. Three ran like yellow jackals. Cowards!” Domain yelled the last word over his shoulder as Galton was already leading him back towards the manor.

    “By the Tears of Kalim, Domian,” Lerimar breathed, shaking his head. He sat across the dining room table from his bruised and battered older brother. Merith was tending Domian's wounds, dabbing a blood-soaked ragged to his head, then dipping it in a bowl of red-hued water.

    “It was a good night, Little Brother”

    “A good night? How could it possibly be a good night?” Lerimar scowled fiercely at Domian. “You've very possibly set fire to the kindling under House Rickson's feet with your gallivanting about participating in tavern brawls.”

    “It wasn't a simple brawl, tavern or otherwise.” Domian winced as Merith unexpectedly applied pressure to his shoulder wound in her attempts to clean it.

    “No? I suppose you've justified your actions by convincing yourself that it was a great battle, that the events of this evening took skill, cunning, and a brave heart.” Lerimar tapped the table for emphasis. “You fought to satiate some barbaric need of yours, and now I'll be in even more of a deficit within political circles than I was before. You shouldn't have returned, Domian, or at the very least; left when I told you to before. A decent man would—”

    “—Have shut his mouth and listened for a change.” Domian growled. “I'm quite through playing up to your overblown sense of martyrdom, so if you're finished playing at being a man and ready to start actually being one, you and I can talk.”

    “Playing—!” Lerimar rose half-way from his seat, his pale features flushing a deep scarlet infused by the rage that surged within his chest. “You don't know the half of what it takes to be a real man, you… you, coward!”

    Domian glared back, unwilling to back down, but already regretting his angry outburst. Then the realization of what his brother's words meant struck him. Lerimar felt that Domian's sneaking off in the middle of the night was because he'd been scared, afraid to grow up. For the two brothers, most of their younger days had been spent playing at knighthood, and it could appear to Lerimar that Domian had been unwilling to give up their games in exchange for adult responsibilities within the family, thus his running off to join the cause along the northern frontier. Perhaps, Domian mused, Lerimar's anger towards him was based on more than a little disappointment. After all, Lerimar had looked up to him all throughout their childhood, believing as most younger brothers did, that their older brother could do no wrong, that he was somehow above human error, desire, or want.

    Domian took a deep breath and hung his head as though weariness filled him. “Lerimar, the only damage done to House Rickson tonight was to its property… me. And I have a fairly good idea of who ordered the assault, as well.”

    Lerimar lowered himself back into the seat and sat silently waiting an explanation. His eyes were still narrowed, though, and he looked as though he were tense, on the edge of his seat, waiting to launch himself into another tirade. Domian took his complacency as a sign to continue.

    “I met with Eian Perone a few days ago. He called upon me as a friend, and brought with him opportunity. This led to a meeting that I attended earlier this evening with the Duke of the Red March, who is spending the winter in his town home here in the city. Duke Red March is part of the Gold Crown Party which is currently at odds with any number of political movements, including some within House Mosfin, none of which are currently in any real position of power as near as I could discern from Eian's long-winded rhetoric. Should House Rickson cast its vote in favor of the Gold Crown's agenda within the forums, we can count on a number of other house's aid in getting back on our feet.” Domian eyed his brother's stony face looking for a sign of approval, but received only the cold, green stare in return.

    “I told him that I'd deliver his terms to the head of the house and get back to him with your answer.” Domian was relieved to see Lerimar's brow twitch with surprise. “I was on my way home to talk with you when I was waylaid by five thugs, whom I assume were set upon me as a response to my reclaiming of the Belfast Orchards yesterday afternoon. The Duke of Red March is waiting on your answer, Lerimar. I'll take care of this other ordeal, as apparently, my message was not received.”

    There was a pause where the only sound was the soft trickle of water as it drizzled from the rag Merith was ringing out over the bowl. Then Lerimar nodded, once, slowly.

    “I… appreciate your efforts on behalf of House Rickson, Domian,” he began haltingly. “The Gold Crown's agenda is not wholly one I approve of. Methodology, if you are inclined to know. They are true to the overall cause, but are elitists, and their interest, or willingness to work with our family now after all of these years proves that they see your arrival as an asset. Whether they saw your return benefiting them, or House Rickson, I cannot say—”

    “Though you'd hazard a guess,” Domian gave a nod of understanding.

    “Yes,” Lerimar acknowledged after another pause. “But I'll not cast defamation anywhere. I will say that my answer will have to be: no.”

    “Are there any politics which meet with your vision for the House?” Domian leaned forward, resting his right arm on the table, to allow Merith access to his ribs.

    Lerimar scowled and Domian momentarily feared his little brother had taken offense at his inadvertently dour tone. He opened his mouth to attempt a preemptive strike, but the younger Rickson answered before a syllable could spill forth.

    “There is one faction, small though it may be, that holds to the ideals I believe best for the The City.” Lerimar continued to pick at the table while he gathered his thoughts. “Publicly announcing House Rickson's affiliation could close as many doors as it opens, if not more. I'm not so sure it is a wise course at all, let alone so soon after… well, you know; you arriving in The City and—”

    “And out of the clear blue sky, suddenly House Rickson is more politically determined?” Domian lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Are you concerned about the ruckus it might cause, or the image it presents?”

    Lerimar's emerald green gaze shot up from the tabletop and met Domian's dark brown stare. The two maintained this standoff for a moment, during which time Domian hoped his brother wasn't contemplating another eruption. The older Rickson was fencing with his brother-playing at a game of feints and lures while trying to draw him out of his shell. It was as dangerous a tactic there in the soft candlelight of the kitchen as it was in the cold, snow-covered mountains of the North. Instead of losing his life at the hands of a northman, troll, or other fell creature, he could lose the last person on this earth whose blood he shared. To Domian, this was a far greater loss.

    “For years, Domian,” Lerimar ended the silence and the showdown in a soft voice filled with weariness far greater than a man his age should have been experienced in. “I have sought to position House Rickson in such a way as to maintain the lost honor of House Mosfin while pursuing the agenda of the greater party, and at every turn I am dismissed. I believe that certain of House Mosfin's varied claims to the throne hold merit. I truly do. But I also believe that there are certain parties within our noble house that would sully the records of genealogy, or find insubstantial links and make them appear legitimate, for the sake of returning the Crown to the Throne swathed in the purple and gold. This, I will not attach House Rickson's name to. I'll not watch as our noble ancestry is brought to ruin because of the unscrupulous nature of villains.”

    “Nor will I,” Domian grimaced as Merith set needle to flesh. “Nor had I intended to.”

    “I am not accusing you of such a plan. I'm telling you this to enlighten you. Despite his being your friend, Eian Perone is not one I'd generally choose to cast my vote with. He's not the worst of the politicians by any means, but the Perones' are bought, sold, and may as well be indentured for all of their apparent ability to think freely. Did Eian tell you he was affiliated with the Black Rose party? No? I didn't think so.”

    “What's this Black Rose party?”

    “It really isn't so much a physical organization as a movement.” Lerimar leaned back in his chair and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. “They promote the Old Ways, where the aristocracy had more power than even the House of Ministers. There are members of the movement within all political parties; The Gold Crown, the Purple Sash, the Golden Throne… all you have to do is listen and you'll hear the politics being pushed. Of all the subtle agenda's, the Black Rose is the most prominent, and in my opinion, the most debilitating.”

    “How so?”

    “Think about it,” Lerimar peered at Domian from across the table. “For years now, The City has been without a king. The Council of Ministers has been governing based on the votes cast by representatives. These representatives are a mixed conglomeration of elected officials ranging in influence from the well-liked shop keep to the first son of a major political house serving as required by law.” Domian refrained from scowling at the implied, “as you were supposed to do” in his brother's voice. Lerimar graciously didn't linger on the jab for too long. “This helps get the voice of the public into the government, and this, in turn, helps facilitate a calmer state of affairs within the populace. When was the last time we had a revolt? The people are taking care of the people, and should the government revert to the Old Ways, this will end.”

    “You're sounding like a Kalimite.”

    “Don't mock being humane, Domian.” Lerimar's voice took on an unusual strength. “The people are who make the nobles, not the other way around. Most have forgotten this and that's why we flounder.”

    “I hardly call this floundering.” Domian glanced at his shoulder as Merith finished up the stitching. “We've been able to prosper—”

    “Under the productive nature of the People,” Lerimar emphasized his point by striking his fist to the table. “Not through any effort on the part of the nobility. Have you seen any one of our station working the fields, plying the waters, or applying trades? I'd challenge you to try if I'd the money to make it worth your while. You'll not find it, I guarantee you.”

    “I concede.” Domian gave the old maid a nod of thanks and slowly stretched his shoulder. “So, I'll ask again: are there any politics that fit with your vision for House Rickson?”

    “Directly? No.”

    “Indirectly?”

    “Various aspects of certain philosophies hint at a possible utopian agenda, but none currently exists that encompasses all, or even the majority.”

    Domian stood up and took a deep breath against the dizziness that flooded his senses. After a moment he reached out a hand to steady himself, touching his fingertips to the wood of the table.

    “There will never be a clear path, Lerimar. Politics don't have one. It is a matter of concessions, that's the sum of it. You have to decide what is important enough to fight for now, and what's to be left for another battlefield, or you'll be overwhelmed by your own foresight.”

    “That sounds like something father would say.”

    “It was.” Domian opened his eyes and smiled a little wistfully at his brother. “Of all the things he taught me, I'd have to say that the insight in that one little phrase was the most valuable.”

    “So,” Lerimar rolled his jaw as though working something tough with his teeth. “Were I to have to choose between the paths before me-us, I mean…” He glanced up at Domian from underneath his brow in an almost shy fashion as he made the small recognition. “I'd have to say that the politics of the Purple Sash best meet my immediate concerns. Still, I don't think they'll have us.”

    “Why's that?”

    “All of their membership has money. They are the wealthiest of the Mosfinites, and though their politics don't include the oppressing of the public, they are a fairly snobbish bunch of old houses. In our current state…”

    “Our state is improving.” Domian walked over to the counter and slowly filled a tumbler with rum from a clay jug while Merith cleaned up the bowl and rags she'd used to dress his wounds.

    “The question is: will it be enough?” Lerimar's chair scraped the stone floor. There was a moment's silence where Domian stared into the depths of his drink, waiting for his brother to say anything further, then, he heard the retreating footsteps moving up the wood stairs and he knew he was alone.

    “It will,” He said, lifting the liquor as though making a toast. “This I swear.”

    The fiery explosion of cheap alcohol seared his throat.

    The frost was exceptionally heavy on the morning that Domian rode Dun towards the South Hollows. He felt invigorated, fresh, and full of good spirits. It had been nearly three weeks since the assault on his person and that morning had begun exceptionally well. He'd joined Lerimar for a measly break fast meal served up by a new cook that had been hired with the first of the orchard returns, and then Galton had brought a missive bearing the seal of the Count of Winterberry's heraldry. Apparently, the count had been informed of a dire mistake in his books that showed he was collecting revenue from a particular tract of land that seemed to belong to the Ricksons'. He'd apologized for the error in cartography, and informed Lords Lerimar and Domian that should either of them be in the vicinity of the Winterberry Estate, they would be considered honored guests at the evening table. Lerimar had been astounded, for he knew exactly which piece of land the Count had referred to, and its value to the Rickson Estate was tremendous. He'd admitted that he'd never thought to see it bear their mark again. Domian had enjoyed his brother's rare good mood while secretly being satisfied that the Count had been corralled. The Count of Winterberry was the third such noble that had been "convinced" to give up land they'd stolen, or had “discovered” a bookkeeping error. It had only taken one more bloody visit to the interloping staff of such sites, and while Domian was still healing up from his dark experience to boot.

    Now, as the breath from his nose and mouth crystallized on the winds before him, Domian moved to make certain House Rickson would be taken seriously by all.

    He wore full war regalia once again, but instead of the stern and serious nature he'd carried with him to first, the orchards, and then, the vineyards, he whistled a merry, nearly jaunty, tune. It very nearly seemed to him that Dun pranced along to the tempo. He was a man accompanied by the happiness that can only come from resolution of a great and weighty thing, for it was but a few moments away as he came upon the elaborate iron gate.

    “What's yer business?” The guard wore the livery of the Veteran's Guild. Silver upon red with a heavy halberd and a long sword strapped to his waist. He was clean-shaven, and bore a thick, white scar that cleft his large chin.

    “I'm here to meet with the Countess.” Domian leaned forward in the saddle and rested his forearms across the horn.

    “Have ya got an invitation?”

    “Indirectly.”

    The soldier blinked, unsure of how to respond.

    “This is what you're going to do,” Domian smiled through his mustaches. “You're going to open the gate, go up to that sprawling palace there, and tell the Countess of Fengray that Domian Rickson is here to meet with her on matters concerning a certain arrangement. Then, I'll wait for your return, when you'll tell me she'll see me in the garden, or some such place.”

    “I've me orders—”

    “There's always the other road.”

    “What other road?”

    “The one on which I leave you bleeding, your insides spilled to the outside and your life drifting away on the winds. I still meet with the Countess of Fengray, but you won't be around to know about it.”

    The man stiffened, holding his halberd as though he were ready to take a swipe at Domian's helmeted head.

    “Think about this, soldier,” Domian didn't move. He continued to smile down on the warrior despite the building tension and the cautious maneuvering of the second gate guard. “I'll promise you that I'll not do your lady any physical harm, and that's a vow you can count on. Would you die because you wished to keep an honest man from an audience with the Countess?”

    It seemed to Domian that the man was slow of mind. The cleft–chinned soldier mulled his option over while staring at the broad shoulders and ease within which Domian sat astride his horse. Then, he shook himself as though waking from a dream, and gave a quick nod to his companion.

    “Go on up t' the house. See what her grace wants done here.”

    The other footman did as he was told, and Domian waited patiently, resuming his whistling and outwardly enjoying the fall sun on his tanned face while the other guard stood warily by. He expected a longer wait and allowed only a flit of his brow to reveal his surprise when the messenger guardsman returned but a few moments later, out of breath and flushed from his exercise.

    “The Countess of Fengray will see you in her parlor, Lord Rickson.” The soldier hurried to deliver the response so that he could catch his breath.

    “I assume there's a servant waiting for my arrival, then?” When the soldier nodded, Domian clicked his tongue and Dun started forward with a smooth canter. The giant of a man didn't pay any attention to the guards once he'd been admitted. They were no more important to his visit than the armor he wore. The way he had figured events transpiring was not the way they would go, however, and his armor would be appreciated before the meeting was over.

    Domian Rickson was introduced to the Countess of Fengray by a flaxen-haired maid wearing a white blouse done up to her throat and a black, billowing skirt. She was a pretty young thing, but it was obvious to the veteran warrior that she was done up in such a fashion as to hide most of her beauty. This spoke volumes to him, like the deep impression of a booted heel in the frosted mud of the northern mountains. There was a story behind every little detail if one was just patient enough to decipher them.

    The parlor of the Fengray Estate house was a testimony to its previous wealth. Decorated in gold and white, its color scheme carried straight through to the piano that stood majestically in the corner. The Countess was also wearing white and gold in the form of a very low cut white dress that revealed a good portion of her powdered breasts. The gown was trimmed with gold in an intricate pattern of floral and aviary life. It was a backless ensemble and was bare at the shoulders as well, though the Countess wore lace gloves that came up to mid bicep to add a little more coverage. Her hair was done up with gold trinkets as well. Now, Domian wasn't as familiar with the social behavior of the forums as he'd once been, but he knew that most ladies didn't dress to such a degree for everyday socializing—they'd dress nicely, and to outdo one another, but never as though they were visiting the opera, or the theater, at least not as elaborately as the Countess was. He also didn't fool himself into believing that she'd rushed to get prettied up for his arrival. Not only did that not make sense with their current relationship, but there was no way she'd have had the time. Those gowns seemed to take a lifetime to get into, though Domian was basing his assumptions off of what he'd overheard while attending balls, he was fairly certain he was correct. Since she was so dressed up, it could only mean she had been entertaining someone of import, was preparing to go someplace important, or was somewhat more self–absorbed than Domian had originally thought.

    “Lord Rickson,” the Countess purred, honey practically dripping from her delicate tongue. “What a pleasant surprise.”

    “I thank you for seeing me, Your Grace,” Domian honored her title with a deep bow from the waist, after all, he was representing Lerimar as well as himself, and though he'd have preferred to begin the meeting by telling the woman exactly what he thought of her, he'd grown accustomed to considering his brother's concerns before acting. It was strange what a few weeks back in The City could do to a man.

    “Not at all,” the Countess acknowledged his bow with a flirtatious smile that never reached her eyes. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

    “I'm afraid it isn't social, Your Grace.”

    “Oh? Business, and before dinner too? You truly have been away in the mountains for as long as they say.” Her eyelashes fluttered a bit.

    “Perhaps,” Domian kept his eyes firmly on hers. “None–the–less, what I've come to talk to you about could wait no longer.”

    “Then, please, indulge yourself. I am curious as to the mind of a career warrior turned ambassador.”

    Domian chose to ignore the barb. He stood for a moment holding his helmet in the crook of his left arm, his right hand hooked on his sword belt. Then, after he figured he'd allowed her time to squirm a bit, he drew the proverbial line in the sand.

    “You are to cease all interests in the Rickson Estate immediately.” Domian's voice was level–commanding–as though he was speaking to an unruly military squad. It demanded obedience.

    The Countess's voice turned icy cold, “I haven't the faintest idea to which you could possibly be referring, sir. But if I did, I'd certainly not allow a brutish barbarian such as yourself to come waltzing into my home, smelling of horse, and tell me what to do! I am the Countess of Fengray, and you will proffer the respect due my station.”

    “Lady,” Domian motioned about the room with his right hand. “Do you see any of your soldiers lying dead at your feet?”

    “No.”

    “Do you see my weapons drawn?”

    “No.”

    “Have I struck you?”

    “No.”

    “Then I've given you all the respect due your station.”

    “Get out!” The Countess's face flushed and her eyes widened dangerously as she pointed imperiously at the door.

    Domian nodded and half turned to the way he'd come in, and then he paused. “Countess, I don't like to repeat myself.”

    The Countess of Fengray appeared to be on the verge of losing all decorum, but before she could respond, a voice laced with liquid venom carried across the room, drawing Domian's gaze to the garden doors.

    “Your time away has robbed you of all sense of propriety, Domian.”

    “Perhaps, Jerion, but my methods serve me well enough.”

    “Do they?” Jerion Millins strolled away from the white doors, their silky diaphanous curtains reaching out to stroke his tattooed skin as though they were the arms of a disregarded lover. “I'm afraid that this time you've insulted a lady I've been sworn to protect, and I can't let that go unanswered.”

    Domian smiled through his mustaches and lowered his head just a bit. “Any time you'd like to call me out, Jerion, you know where to find me.”

    “I won't be searching, Domian. I'm calling for an answer now.”

    “Don't be a fool,” Domian stepped to his left in order to keep the circling Veteran's Guild soldier in front of him and to put him closer to a plush, white chair, where he set his helmet, hardly bending at all in order to do so. “I'd have thought you'd have at least four others backing you before you made the declaration, and what's more: I'd have thought that a frontal attack wasn't your style.”

    “Watch your tongue, Rickson,” Jerion snarled, his long, black hair draping his face in shadows. “I was only going to make you bleed a bit for your insult, but now that you've compounded it, I'm afraid I'll have to cut your tongue out.”

    “If that's the only way…” Domian smiled broader and spread his hands wide, accepting the situation.

    “It is.” Jerion unsheathed his monster scimitar, giving it a single whirl about shoulder height. He now stood only a few paces from Domian, between the elder Rickson and the Countess. Domian answered by relieving his heavy sword of its sheathe at his waist.

    Jerion was first to lunge, darting forward with surprising speed for his bulk, but Domian compensated, catching the Vet's sword on his own and turning it aside, then turned to put his shoulder into Jerion's body. There was an audible “oomph” as Jerion was forced back a step, then the blades crashed together again. The sparks flew from another meeting, and Domian found himself stepping away, his hands tingling from the force of the blow. He gifted Jerion a nod of appreciation before darting forward and spearing his weapon towards his opponent's chest. Jerion knocked the blade aside with relative ease, but Domian had presented the assault in such a fashion on purpose and he followed the sword thrust up with a fierce punch to the tattooed man's face. He felt the cartilage dissolve beneath his fist and watched with satisfaction as Jerion staggered backward, blood spurting from his destroyed nose.

    Domian was quick on Jerion's retreat, pouncing like a dragon on a treasure chest, bringing his sword down in an overhand strike while Jerion struggled to see through bleary, tear-filled eyes. The move would have been really effective versus someone less experienced. As it was, Jerion rolled just in the knick of time, receiving a thin cut across his bare shoulder for his effort. Domian continued his offensive, rotating his blade around and gripping it with just his right hand; he brought it down in the opposite direction. Jerion slipped in his own blood while trying to avoid contact, falling backward to the floor and scrambling out from underneath the giant's feet. The blade whistled past his head, trimming his hair just a little. Switching the blade to his left hand in a single motion, Domian cut downward again, stepping after his prey with a single minded purpose.

    Jerion found purchase and kicked his way underneath a table, sliding between its legs and putting it temporarily between him and his assailant. Domian growled in annoyance and hurled the table aside, but the delay, however small, was enough to allow Jerion to regain his feet once more. The two warriors clashed like storm clouds rolling across the prairie. Their swords darted in and out, singing triumphantly as they found each other in flight. It was a flurry of blows as each swordsman attempted to force the other into a defensive position, or better yet, slip past their current defenses and score a wound. But neither seemed able to win through as they circled about the room. In the process, Domian caught sight of two Veteran's Guild footmen standing by, one at the door to the parlor and the other at the garden. They hadn't drawn any weapons yet, but Domian had the feeling they were just biding their time. He hadn't really intended to get into a fight and the image of Lerimar's reproachful face filling his mind angered him.

    The force of his blows became more resonant, and he began to force Jerion on the defensive, pushing him back towards the door to the parlor. He felt the sweat beading up on his forehead, the fire of adrenaline burning in his shoulders and chest, and his face screwed up with rage. With a mighty yell he knocked Jerion's sword aside and slammed his elbow into the man's face. Jerion Millins staggered backward again, stopping just short of the footman, whose hands had been raised to catch the warrior should they collide. Domian took advantage of the other man's temporary disorientation and stepped forward, almost leaping; planting a booted foot against Jerion's chest he kicked. The momentum of the action lifted the other from his feet and carried him into the soldier behind him. The two of them continued backward, crashing through, and splintering, one of the ornate, white doors that led into the parlor. They spilled into the hall beyond, a mess of arms and legs with Domian hot in pursuit.

    Jerion was gasping as he roughly pushed off the dazed footman, raising his sword defensively, his eyes widened as realization of his inevitable loss set in. Domian came through the shattered door like a shade passing through a crypt. His countenance was as dark as the night in the dead of winter on a moonless night. The battle resumed with Domian battering away at the other man's sword, dealing a scathing wound here and another there until Jerion was soaked in his own blood and panting from the effort of keeping Domian from his vitals.

    They made their way quickly down the hall, feet shuffling, both men showing the exertion of their fight, until Domian forced Jerion against the front door. It was then that Domian caught his second wind. His strokes became imbued with alacrity, his eyes focused on Jerion's tense face like a man who'd seen the outcome and was calmly working towards it. Jerion could do nothing more than struggle against the onslaught, barely able to meet the cutting blade with his own defense. He was forced to use both hands in order to fend the brunt of Domian's attacks off, and rather unsuccessfully at that. As a result he ended up with a few more cuts and the door, where he did manage to redirect some of the attacks, ended up chipped and hacked, the splinters mingling with the spilled blood at their feet.

    Domian could sense the presence of the footmen and the Countess, and even though he was unsure as to why they didn't join the fight, he was grateful for it. Jerion, however, was not.

    “Attack him, you fools,” he gasped as yet another knick was inflicted upon his chest. Whether or not he thought the two footmen would respond, Jerion was given a minor respite as Domian was forced to divide his attention. The Veteran's Guild soldier batted the giant's sword aside and released his scimitar with his right hand to open the door. Stumbling backward, he put some distance between himself and the Mosfinite, staggering to a stop at the foot of the stoop.

    Domian spared the footmen a single look that stalled them in their approach. Then he slipped out the door and onto the porch. “This is your only chance, Jerion. Surrender or I'll end you. This I promise.”

    “I can't,” Jerion winced and wiped blood from his eyes. His vest was soaked with his blood and his flesh was sliced in multiple places, whereas Domian had sustained only a minor cut to his right forearm.

    “Oh, you can.” Domian began to move down the stairs at such an angle as to keep the footmen in the doorway and Jerion at least in his peripheral. “If the Countess releases you, you can, and with honor intact.”

    Domian watched Jerion's eyes flit towards the door as the Countess of Fengray's icy voice carried across the courtyard, “Do what you were paid for, Lord Millins.”

    The elder Rickson shook his head, “Looks like you chose the wrong side, Jerion.”

    “Perhaps,” Jerion's red–streaked face split into a maniacal grin. “Why'd you have to come home?”

    Before Domian could respond, Jerion leapt forward, sword raised over his head in order to bring a vicious stroke against his foe. Not as weary as his opponent, Domian reacted quickly, side–stepping and twisting so that he ended up at Jerion's back, facing the stairs and the door of the manor as Millin's sword sparked against the stone. It was a continuation of his twist and turn, the move that put Domian's sword through Jerion Millin's back where it erupted from just below his sternum. There was a pause in the action, a gasp from Jerion, and then the sickly sucking sound the blade made when Domian pulled it free.

    Jerion fell then, turning as he did so that he landed on his back, seating partially on the stair, resting on his left elbow as his right hand dropped with his sword to lie limply on the ground. Jerion's breathing was ragged from the pain of his wound. Domian doubted the fellow could feel anything below his waist as he was sure he felt the spine severed by the stroke.

    “Well,” Jerion managed weakly.

    Domian gave him a small nod and watched in silence as the life expired from the Veteran's Guild soldier. When Jerion Millins lay still on the stairs, Domian looked up at the shocked footmen, over at the gate guards who had come running, and then finally his gaze rested on the white–faced Countess.

    “I tried to do this peacefully, Countess.” He raised his bloody sword to point at her, ignoring the shifting of feet as the guards hesitantly made to intercept any violence towards their charge. “Remember my words. It ends here.”

    Domian Rickson sighed contentedly as he sat before the raging fire in his father's office. He had his booted feet extended towards the flames and a warm brandy in hand. Outside the large window, the first snow was drifting lazily towards the earth. It had been a couple of weeks since his last encounter and he had been healing up well enough. The afternoon was waning when the door to the office opened and Lerimar's thin form swept past him to the bookshelf where the brandy was kept. The younger Rickson removed black gloves from his hands and went about pouring himself a drink before retiring to the chair next to his brother's perch. The two of them sat in silence for a moment, enjoying the alcohol and each other's company. Then, Lerimar broke the silence.

    “I've just come from the forums.”

    “Well?”

    “It was different,” Lerimar stroked the gold rim of his tumbler as he thought of the best way to put what he was thinking into words. “There was respect in the way I was treated… and a little fear.”

    Domian tilted his head a bit in acknowledgement of the fact and sipped his brandy.

    “Jerion Millins is alive,” Lerimar glanced at his brother. “The word in the forums is that Larion Eldrin paid the Countess of Fengray a visit shortly after you did. Apparently, he had no idea that the Veteran's Guild was involved in her… clandestine activities and was rather furious about the results. If I am to understand the outcome, the Countess of Fengray ended up paying the Glory of Kalim to resurrect poor Jerion as part of her compensation to the Veteran's Guild.”

    “Hmm,” Domian smiled into his drink.

    “Domian?”

    “Yes?”

    “Thank you.”

    For the first time in the months that had passed since he had returned to The City, Domian felt that he was truly home.