The Heir of Jeragoth

Bertrand and Neridius sat in the study of his castle in Seldonia City. Bertrand hated going to the annual Council of Barons and he was in a foul mood. A servant quietly opened the study door and said somewhat timidly, “My Lord, Baron Galiblent is here to see you.”

Bertrand looked at Neridius and frowned. “What the hell does that bastard want?” Neridius didn’t reply, but merely raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. Bertrand’s frown deepened. Finally he replied gruffly, “Send him in.”

Tribanius Galiblent, though eighty-two years old, still walked with a purposeful stride. His piercing gaze took in every detail of the room, including Neridius sitting quietly in a shadowed corner. Bertrand didn’t stand when he entered, although protocol called for it because Galiblent was the head of the Council of Barons—a position that had belonged to Candril until fifty years ago.

“It seems that your barons have been encroaching on my lands,” Galiblent said as he took the chair across from Bertrand’s desk.

“You mean the lands your father stole from my brother?” Bertrand replied.

“My father and your brother made a deal,” Galiblent retorted.

“Is that what you call it?” Bertrand asked. “I think the rest of us call it blackmail.”

“I don’t think your brother would have particularly liked to have certain kinds of information about himself made generally known. I imagine you would not like it much either.”

Bertrand threw back his head and laughed. “What do I care what my brother was? He’s been dead for more than forty years. I knew what my brother was—everybody knew what my brother was. Only my brother thought nobody knew. Your father knew that and took advantage of it.” A long silence ensued as the two men stared at one another. Finally Bertrand said, “What do you want? You didn’t come over here just to settle a land dispute. Any one of your ministers could do that for you.”

“True,” Galiblent answered, “But you see, I have another bargain in mind which might allow you to regain the lands your brother lost.”

“And what sort of ‘bargain’ would that be?” Bertrand asked impassively.

Baron Galiblent tried not to show his frustration. Bertrand was not showing any eagerness at all. He cleared his throat and continued. “Your daughter has come of age recently, I believe.” Galiblent waited, watching intently for some kind of reaction from Bertrand at the mention of this. He was disappointed once again.

“Whether or not my daughter has come of age is my decision,” Bertrand replied quietly.

“Come off it man!” Galiblent retorted. “She’s ready to breed and seems quite eager to do so—at least according to Declan Neraso. Why do you keep her hidden away? She’s already starting to show her mother’s tendencies. She needs to be pinned down before she gets out of hand and shames the Candril name.”

This time, after forty years of waiting, Galiblent was not disappointed. Bertrand’s eyes flashed angrily and his hand twitched ever so slightly then curled into a fist. “I think,” he said carefully, “That you are mistaken about Mirasol.”

Galiblent laughed out loud. “You don’t seriously think any of us bought that pile of cow dung that she’s Mirasol’s daughter, do you? She doesn’t look anything like Mirasol but she certainly looks a lot like that little piece you dallied with fifteen years ago.”

Bertrand pounded his fist on his desk, “It’s none of your damned business, Galiblent.”

Baron Galiblent smiled blandly. “It must be a terrible burden on Alana to know she’s not Mirasol’s daughter.” Galiblent watched Bertrand carefully and saw by his slight but definite reaction that he was on the right track. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. “She doesn’t know, does she?” His lips curled up in a nasty smile, “How very interesting.”

#

Two days after the battle, Alana sat on the floor of the stables scrubbing the dirt, blood, and gore off her leather backpack. She would have done it sooner except that Iliard had insisted she spend a full day resting. Now as she scrubbed, Alana’s mind returned to the tavern in Narsacalius. She played the battle over and over again in her mind, trying to put the pieces together. She wondered if she could have done something different to save the lives of the bar help. Every one of them except the tavern owner had died when the bar collapsed.

She smiled to herself as she glanced at the healing potions sitting on the floor next to her. At least she had been able to help Lord Geron. He had survived. He had even thanked her afterward for being so prepared. She was so deep in her thoughts that she started when she heard her brother say, “Do you always carry those potions with you?”

“Of course,” she answered off-handedly as she went back to scrubbing, “Adventurers always carry healing potions with them.”

There was a long silence as Alana concentrated on a particularly stubborn bloodstain. Finally, Bert responded. “Is that what you call yourself?” When Alana looked up at him in confusion, he went on, “Do you really think you’re an adventurer?” He pointed at the breeches she was wearing and then glanced at the dagger on her belt. “You might dress like one, but you’re just barely fourteen. What possible good could you be in a fight? I’ll bet you don’t even know how to use that dagger. You must know why Uncle Iliard adventures with you.”

Stung by Bert’s harsh words, Alana stood up to face him. She had never heard her brother talk like this before. “What are you talking about, Bert? Uncle Iliard takes me adventuring because he wants to. We have fun together.”

Bert smirked and said suggestively, “I’m sure you do.”

Alana frowned deeply. She did not at all like the tone of his voice. “What are you trying to say, Bert?”

“I’m not saying anything,” he replied with feigned indifference. “I just wonder what it’s like to lay with your own uncle.”

Alana stared at him in stunned silence for several moments. At last she found her voice and asked quietly, “What did you say?”

“You heard me,” he replied ruthlessly, “Mother says that’s the only reason ‘Uncle Illy’ takes you with him.”

Alana took another step closer to him and said quietly, “Take it back.”

“Why should I,” he asked mockingly, “It’s the truth.”

“I said, take it back,” Alana responded, her voice rising in anger.

Bert looked down at her from his six foot plus height and said contemptuously, “What are you going to do? Hit me?”

The bottom of Alana’s foot made contact with the side of his knee and he went down. On his way down, Alana slammed her fist into his nose, breaking it. He screamed out in pain as he hit the ground, his hands covering the profuse bleeding.

Alana stood over him holding her right hand, which was also bleeding, and said curtly, “Yes. Now, take it back or I’ll break something else.”

“All right, all right,” Bert answered, his voice muffled by his hands and his broken nose, “I take it back. I’m sorry.”

Alana turned away from him and picked up her things. When she turned back, she was holding a healing potion. “You were there,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “You heard the oath he swore.” She tossed the dark blue bottle onto Bert’s lap. “You should know better.” Then she grabbed her backpack and left him sitting in dust the and straw of the stable floor.

#

“The Baroness wishes to see you.”

Alana was sitting on the ground outside the kitchens, leaning on a fencepost sharpening the dagger Iliard had rescued from the wreckage of the Silver Arrow. When Alana didn’t answer, Olivia said more firmly, “The Baroness wishes to see you.”

Alana slowly lifted her eyes to look at her mother’s maid. “Were you speaking to me?” she asked as if in surprise. “If you were,” she went on, “it’s rather odd that you should address me in such a manner. It is my understanding that servants in this castle are required to address me as my Lady, or Lady Alana, or Lady Candril.”

To Alana’s satisfaction, Olivia’s face paled and her lips compressed to a thin line. “I beg your pardon…my Lady,” she said tightly, “the Baroness wishes to see you in her chambers.”

Alana let out a short bark of laughter. “That didn’t take long. Her spies must be working doubly hard today.” She put her sharpening stone back in to the small pouch on her belt and wiped her blade with a soft cloth. “Tell…the Baroness…that I’m not setting foot in her chambers ever again. If she wants to see me, she’ll have to crawl out of her lair and come to me.” She smirked and added, “Unless of course, she’s afraid of daylight.” Alana saw Olivia’s face redden with impotent rage, but of course she couldn’t say anything in response to Alana’s jibes. When Olivia continued to stand there, Alana raised an eyebrow and said, “You are dismissed.” Olivia’s jaw dropped slightly but she quickly clamped it shut, turned on her heel and left.

#

Alana waited at the bottom of the back staircase, watching her mother’s regal descent. Alana could see that Mirasol was angry. Alana didn’t care—she was angrier. Olivia, who was following a few steps behind Mirasol, glared down at Alana, trying to intimidate her as she had done so many times before. Alana smiled in amusement. She met Olivia’s gaze boldly and said, “You can stop glaring at me Olivia. I’m not a little girl anymore, you don’t frighten me.” With a half-smile she added, “I just killed someone who was a lot scarier than you.” Alana was rewarded with a look of outrage from both Olivia and her mother.

Mirasol stopped at the bottom of the staircase, a few feet away from Alana and said, “How dare you? Your father will hear of your intolerable behavior.”

Alana just stared at her in silence. After a few moments she said, “A long time ago, Uncle Iliard told me there was more to beauty than good looks. Now I understand what he meant. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, but you are ugly inside. You are the ugliest person I have ever known.”

Mirasol’s eyes went wide with surprised rage, her usual unruffled façade cracking, “How dare you?!”

Alana shouted back, “How dare I? How dare you spread vile and disgusting lies about Uncle Iliard and about me? How dare you whisper them into Bert’s ear as if they were true? You’re going to tell Father about my behavior? How do you think he’ll feel when I tell him what you said to Bert? Which one of us do you think he’ll be angrier at?” Alana saw the startled look on Mirasol’s face and said, “Don’t be so surprised. You should know that Bert’s never been very discreet. I can forgive him, though, because he repeated it out of jealousy. He never really believed it because he knows better. You I can’t forgive because you said it out of spite, malice and hatred for a man who’s never done anything to you.” Alana paused to collect her thoughts. “You go ahead and tell Father I broke Bert’s nose. And then, when he comes to me to ask me why, I’ll tell him what you said. Of course I could stoop to your level and hint that you are guilty of that which you accuse Uncle Iliard. After all, why else would you call my brother to your chambers so often?”

Mirasol’s slap took Alana by surprise and she instinctively reacted in kind, but with far more force, knocking the older woman to the ground. Alana stared down at her aghast. She never thought that she would strike her own mother. Mirasol’s face was the picture of shock. Olivia gasped in horror.

Mirasol put a trembling hand to her face and screamed out, “Guards!” Immediately, three guards came running from three different directions. Mirasol stood up with Olivia’s help, pointed at Alana and said, “Take her to the post.” Four faces looked at her in stunned surprise. She repeated, “I said, take her to the post.”

One of the guards, Kira, backed away and said, “I’m sorry my Lady, I can’t. It’s not allowed.” Then she turned and hurried away.

Mirasol’s eyes blazed with anger. She looked at the other two and shouted, “I am Baroness here. Obey me! Take her to the post.”

One of the other guards grabbed Alana’s arm and she reacted instantly. She struggled with him, trying to pull her arm out of his grip, but to no avail. “Let me go!” she cried and fought harder. The second guard took hold of her other arm and the pair half walked, half carried her to the courtyard behind the stables.

#

Kira ran as fast as she could down the hallway to Colonel Gormin’s office. When, at last, she reached the door, she demanded entry. When the guards appeared to hesitate, she shouted, “It’s an emergency. I must see the Colonel right away.”

When they finally let her through, she rushed across the large anteroom, almost knocking over Remicus’ aide, Gellmy, who was delivering a message to Colonel Gormin. She hammered insistently on Colonel Gormin’s door. Gormin swung open his door, incensed that someone would pound on it like that. He took one look at Kira’s face and asked, “What’s wrong.” Kira told him everything that had happened in the hallway. Colonel Gormin looked at her in disbelief and said, “Can’t be. That’s not allowed.”

“She is doing it, sir” Kira responded, “She is the Baroness. There is no one to tell her nay.”

Gormin slipped his hand into a pocket inside his tunic and pulled out a small emerald amulet. “Let’s go.”

#

This couldn’t be happening, shouldn’t be happening. Not in her own home, with her own mother. But the shackles on her wrists were real, the chains that held them were real, and the sun beating down on her bare back was real. Alana had been taken to the courtyard in front of the stables and chained to the post there. Then her tunic, shirt and undergarment had been torn in half and pulled off her shoulders to expose her back. All of her senses were heightened. The smell of the grass beneath her feet, the sound of the horses stirring restlessly in their stalls, the glare of the sunlight reflecting off the whitewashed fence posts all were branded in her mind.

Alana heard the heavy breathing of the guard behind her as he prepared himself for his task. She heard him take a sharp breath and she tried to prepare herself for the blow that was coming. The whistle and crack of the whip and the white-hot pain across her back and shoulders seemed to happen simultaneously. Her body went rigid and she grabbed hold of the chains. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. She bit her bottom lip, determined that she would make no sound. She would not give any of them the satisfaction of hearing her cry out in pain. The second strike quickly followed the first and brought pain to new areas of her back. The third blow drew blood. She felt it trickle down her back. The guard seemed to hesitate after that, but Mirasol shouted at him, “I said ten!”

Again came the whistle and crack of the whip, but this time the pain brought tears to her eyes and she bit her bottom lip so hard that she drew blood. Only six more, she thought to herself. She had experienced worse pain than this only two days before, surely she could endure six more lashes.

After the fifth blow, Alana felt like her whole back was on fire. At the sixth strike, the bile rose to her throat She saw the stern image of Asaeria saying, “You are the child of warriors.” Alana tightened her grip on the chains that held her and prayed, “Asaeria, give me the strength to endure this.”

The guard took a deep breath and she steeled herself. She heard him grunt heavily and she waited, thinking that he was preparing a harder blow for her. But the blow never came. Instead she heard the sound of something hitting the ground. The shackles on her wrists opened of their own accord and she heard her Uncle Iliard say, “It’s all right Alana, I’m here. Then he was there standing beside her. “Alana,” he said gently, “It’s all right. You can let go.” He put his hands over hers and slowly eased them from around the chains she had been grasping. Her fingers and palms were bruised from the force of her grip. Iliard turned her around and took her face in his hands. Her bottom lip was swollen and bleeding where she bit it. Her tear-filled eyes were wide and her pupils were dilated. “I’m going to teleport you to your room,” he said quietly. Alana nodded silently. Iliard put his arm around her, careful not to touch her bloodied back. He turned to Colonel Gormin, pointed at Mirasol and said harshly, “Take her to her chambers and make sure she stays there.”

Incensed, Mirasol protested, “You cannot do that!”

Iliard’s eyes bored into hers and he snarled, “Yes, I can.” Mirasol’s jaw dropped and she went pale. For the first time since she met Iliard, she was afraid of him. Iliard indicated the two guards who had brought Alana to the post, “Get those two out of my sight.” The one who had whipped her was just picking himself up off the ground. Kira and another guard ushered the two out of the courtyard, past the small group of spectators that had gathered outside the kitchen door. Colonel Gormin indicated that Mirasol should precede him and they also left. Iliard tightened his grip around Alana and asked, “Are you ready?” Once again Alana nodded silently.

When they arrived in Alana’s room, Jena was just coming in. When she saw Alana’s back, she gasped in horror. “My Lord, what happened?”

“We can talk about it later, Jena,” Iliard said curtly, “Right now I need a basin of warm water and a soft cloth.” Jena hurried from the room. Iliard sat Alana on the bed and then had her lay down on her stomach. He pulled back the ragged edges of her garments and then laid his hands gently on either side of her back. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he felt the healing power flow from him. Gradually the marks from the lash faded until nothing was left of them but the bloodstains and one thin, white line. Iliard clenched his jaw and his eyes flashed angrily for a brief moment. Jena brought the basin to him and he washed the blood from Alana’s back. Jena handed him a towel and he gently dried his niece’s back. He stood up when he was finished and said, “Jena, please bring her a dressing gown. I’ll wait outside.”

After Jena helped Alana out of her torn and dirty clothing and into her dressing gown, Iliard came back in and sat down on the bed next to her. “Now, can you tell me what happened?”

Alana hesitated. “It started because Bert and I had a fight and I hit him.”

“You hit him? How hard?”

Alana lowered her gaze. “I broke his nose.”

“You broke his nose?” Iliard was about to admonish her, but he thought better of it. He decided he would wait for the whole story before making a judgment. “What were you fighting about?”

Alana shifted uncomfortably. “I…he said something really horrible.”

Iliard frowned, “What could he possibly say to make you hit him?”

Alana looked down at her hands. “He…” She paused, reluctant to continue, but she knew that her uncle would expect her to tell the truth. She tried a different tactic. “Do you remember that man at the livery in Narsacalius and what he said to you about you being my uncle?”

Iliard frowned thoughtfully as he tried to remember, then his eyes widened. “Bertrand said that?”

“He only said it because Mother said it to him first,” Alana replied in defense of her brother.

Iliard shook his head in confusion. “Wait, this is getting a bit too convoluted. You’re going to have to tell me the whole story from beginning to end. And don’t leave anything out.” Alana’s cheeks reddened but she acquiesced. Slowly and hesitantly, she began her tale, starting with her conversation with Bert in the stable and ending with her mother’s command to have her taken to the post.

Iliard said nothing for a very long time, he just sat on the edge of the bed and stared off into space. Alana twisted her fingers together and looked at him anxiously. Finally, she couldn’t stand it anymore. “Uncle Illy, are you mad at me?”

When Iliard turned to her, she could see the sadness in his eyes. He smiled and put one hand over hers. “No, I’m not angry with you. Thank you for defending my honor, I’m just sorry it cost you so much. This shouldn’t have happened at all.” He smiled crookedly, “Maybe I shouldn’t have taught you to hit so hard.”

Alana started to laugh but then abruptly burst into tears. Iliard took her into his arms and held her while she wept. He sometimes forgot that she was not yet a woman full-grown. In the past two days she had endured things that most adults never did. She finally said in a voice thick with tears and muffled by his tunic, “Why does she hate me? Mothers are supposed to love their children.”

Iliard felt his throat constrict. What could he say to her? He could tell her the truth, but that would be breaking his oath to his brother. Surely the time for secrets had come to an end. Alana was old enough now to understand the circumstances surrounding her birth. He decided that he would talk to Bertrand about it when he saw him—which would be very soon.

After Alana had quieted, Iliard gave her a handkerchief to dry her eyes. With a sigh he said, “After today, I may have to stay away from here for a while.” He hesitated a moment before he went on. “Your father might decide I overstepped the boundaries of my authority.”

Alana’s eyes went wide and started to fill with tears again, “You can’t!” she cried in distress, “I want to adventure with you. It’s all I ever want to do. It’s what makes this place bearable.”

Iliard shook his head, “Alana, adventuring is not supposed to be a way to escape your troubles.”

“No,” Alana insisted, “You don’t understand. I want it to be my life. I want to be a Ranger like you and Grandma Kate were and someday, maybe I’ll be good enough to be a Novadi. And besides,” she added, “You said you would start teaching me how to wield a sword.”

Iliard smiled but, once again, Alana thought he looked sad, “I did say that, didn’t I?” He let out a quiet sigh. “Alana, I cannot promise you anything right now. Some things have changed and others will change soon. It may very well be that we cannot adventure together anymore.”

“No!” Alana exclaimed tearfully.

“Alana, listen to me,” he said firmly. “It is the nature of life that things must change. You’re getting older. Too old probably, to go on these ‘little adventures’ with your uncle. We faced real danger in Narsacalius and you weren’t ready. It may be time for you to begin training on your own. I really cannot say for certain. I cannot see your future—we are too close.”

“But you could train me,” Alana said desperately. “You used to be a Ranger.”

“Yes,” Iliard answered with a nod, “I am capable of training you in the ways of the Ranger, but I cannot provide what you really need in your training. I cannot give you consistency. As you said yourself, I am a Wielder. I can be called away at a moment’s notice to places all over Gorthus and, according to my oath, I must go. I would be doing you a disservice if I took on your training myself.”

Alana bowed her head, knowing in her heart the truth of everything he had just said. She clenched her fists in the coverlet and bit her bottom lip to try to stop herself from crying. “What do I do now?” she asked softly.

Iliard lifted her chin with his fingers, took his handkerchief from her hands, and wiped away her tears. “First of all, you should stop biting your lip like that. You’re going to put permanent holes in it.” Alana laughed a little bit and he smiled. “As for the rest of it, you will have to be patient and wait. The time for your training will come, of that I have no doubt. The only question is when. That, unfortunately, I cannot say. This will be a test of your determination. Very often, being a Ranger requires a great deal of waiting. Do you think you can pass this first test?”

Alana straightened up and sniffled a little. Then she took a deep breath. “I can do it, Uncle Iliard. I want you to be proud of me.”

Iliard put his hand over hers. “I’m already proud of you. The way you handled yourself in Narsacalius impressed Lord Lof Vonas himself and that’s not easy to do. You have the makings of a great warrior. You just need patience.” He sighed and got up. “Now I have to go see your father. He needs to know what happened here today, and I need to be the one to tell him.”

“But when will I see you again?” Alana asked, trying to hold back new tears.

“I don’t know,” he answered. He glanced over at her night stand and spotted the blue vase from their Nel Burath adventure. He picked it up and handed it to her. “I may not be able to come here for a while, but if you need me, put this outside your window on the outer sill and I will come. Just wait until sunset on the next day and I will meet you in the grove of trees by the north wall.”

Alana bit her bottom lip and nodded. She put down the vase and threw her arms around Iliard’s neck. “I love you, Uncle Illy.”

Iliard pulled her into a hug and said hoarsely, “I love you too, small one.”

#

Bertrand was sitting in his box in the general assembly listening to one of Baron Galiblent’s ministers drone on and on about nothing in particular. At this point he thought he would rather be in one of the nine pits of hell than here. His meeting with Galiblent the previous evening had gone badly to say the least. He had a real problem on his hands and he wasn’t sure how to deal with it. Maybe he would ask Iliard for some advice. Then, as though his thoughts had conjured him, Iliard was standing in the doorway of the main entrance to the assembly hall. He looked up to where Bertrand was sitting and just stared at his older brother. That was enough for Bertrand. “There’s trouble,” he whispered to Neridius as he shot out of his chair, tipping it over backward. Everyone in the assembly hall looked at the source of the clatter, but Baron Candril was already gone.

#

“You should see your daughter first, Bert,” Iliard said when his brother was obviously headed towards his wife’s chambers.

“Why? You said she was safe and healed.” Bertrand replied, not slowing his considerable stride. “I am going to ring that bitch’s neck.” When they reached the outer doorway of her wing, Colonel Gormin was there with four of his guards. Bertrand growled at him, “Is she still in there?”

“Yes my Lord, unless she’s jumped out a window,” Gormin said. Bertrand looked like he thought it was a good idea. The two guards closest to the outer doors opened them for the High Baron.

As Bertrand marched through them he said, “Everyone stay out here.” As Iliard started to follow him he said, “Even you Iliard.”

Iliard raised an eyebrow and said softly, “I won’t wait long.”

Bertrand flinched slightly at the words but his anger soon returned in full force and he said, “This won’t take long.” He turned and continued walking into the rooms. The two guards closed the doors behind him.

Iliard calmed himself. “There is much to be discussed,” he said. He turned to look at Neridius. “Tell him when he gets out that I will be in his study.”

Yes, my Lord,” Neridius answered and bowed slightly.

“And Neridius,” He continued, leveling an angry gaze at him, “I will not wait long before deciding on my own.”

“I understand, my Lord,” Neridius responded quickly. Gormin thought he saw Neridius look worried for the first time ever. Iliard walked stiffly away down the hallway.

Bertrand threw open every door in his path, even the ones that were already open. Ladies-in-waiting aplenty scurried to get out of his way as he stormed past. When he reached Mirasol’s dressing room he saw her sitting at her dressing table with Olivia brushing her hair. He stared at Olivia and said, “Get out.” He did not watch Olivia as she practically ran out of the room.

Mirasol turned in her chair to face him, her eyes reflecting her own outrage. “That whore’s child of yours hit me. Hit me!”

“Silence!” Bertrand roared at the top of his lungs. Mirasol dropped the small mirror she was holding and it shattered. He could feel the insane rage boiling over inside him. He had a brief memory of his father in this state. He hesitated a second time, but soon saw only red again. “No Candril will ever go to the post again—unless it’s you.” He grimaced at her, bared his teeth, and took one menacing step towards her. She shrieked, tried to get out of her chair, knocked it over and fell to the ground.

She had a look of pure terror on her face as she tried to scramble across the floor away from him. He stopped his advance. His rage subsided slightly. He looked at her and remembered again his father bearing down in a similar fashion on his brother before beating him or dragging him to the post.

The small voice he heard was that of his mother. She was talking to him after one of his father’s episodes. She told him that one day in the distant future he would be in the same place, but in the role of beater instead of beaten. On that day he would have to choose to follow in his father’s footsteps or not. The young Bertrand swore he would never be like his father and that he hated his father with every bone in his body. His mother had warned him that that hate would make him more like his father, not less.

Bertrand looked down at Mirasol and he loved her and hated her but ultimately, he pitied her. He said to her through clenched teeth, “You will no longer have any guards of your own to command, nor will you have any authority over any of the guards in this castle. Colonel Gormin will be in charge of your security. He will appoint guards to you and they will report to him alone. If you ever put a hand on Alana again, you will spend the rest of your life in these chambers. And,” he went on, his eyes boring into her, “If I ever hear even the slightest whisper of the filth you said about my brother, I’ll banish you from Candril with nothing more than the clothes on your bleeding back. Do you understand my meaning?” Mirasol nodded quickly, her hand still over her mouth.

Bertrand stormed out of the dressing room again, causing Olivia to jump to get out of the way of the doors. As soon as he was past, she ran in to attend to her Lady who sat crying on the floor.

When Bertrand got back out of Mirasol’s wing he walked straight for Alana’s rooms. Neridius followed behind, running to keep up.

“Your brother said he would decide on his own if you did not come see him,” Neridius whispered to Bertrand as they walked. Bertrand stopped in mid-stride. His rage was still hot within him, although not as dangerous as it had been just moments before. “Tell that…” he paused, “Tell my brother…I’ll be there as soon as I’ve seen Alana.”

Neridius bowed slightly and said, “Yes, my Lord.” Bertrand watched his advisor as he hurried toward the main staircase. He knew he needed to calm himself before he went to see Alana. It wouldn’t do to scare her half to death after everything else that had happened. He wondered briefly where his son was. He too would have to be dealt with. But it would have to be later, after he talked to Iliard.

When he got to Alana’s rooms, Jena curtsied. “Good afternoon, Baron Candril.”

“Hello Jena,” he said quietly. “How is she?”

Jena looked over her shoulder and then stepped a little further into the ante-chamber. “Well, my Lord, she’s had a hard day, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” Bertrand answered with a nod. He walked past Jena and stopped just inside the doorway to Alana’s bedroom. She was sitting on the window seat with her arms wrapped around her knees. Her posture said much but it was the look on her face that struck at Bertrand’s heart. He knew that look well. He had seen it often enough on Iliard’s face for it to be branded in his mind forever. It was the look of child who couldn’t understand why a parent who was supposed to love them had done something so terrible.

Maybe it was time to tell her the truth. Maybe the blows would be easier to bear if she knew that Mirasol wasn’t really her mother. It would certainly loosen Galiblent’s hold on him--but Bertrand hesitated. Maybe it was too much for Alana in one day. How would she feel if she knew that she had been lied to all her life? He couldn’t bear the thought of the look on her face then. No, he couldn’t tell her—not yet.

Alana looked up and saw him standing there. “Hello, Papa,” she said quietly.

Bertrand went over to the window seat and half-sat, half-leaned on the edge of it. He cleared his throat and said, “How are you doing?”

Alana shrugged. “All right. Uncle Iliard healed me. But,” she went on with a little difficulty, “There’s still a mark. I felt it.”

Bertrand launched himself away from the window. “Damn it! I’ll kill her!” His rage reignited, he turned to go back to Mirasol’s wing, but he caught a glimpse of the desolate look on his daughter’s face. He stopped in his tracks and clenched his fists, trying desperately to cool his anger. He turned back to Alana and said, “I’m sorry. It shouldn’t have happened. It wasn’t supposed to happen. That’s the law here in the castle. No Candril is ever brought to the post—ever. It won’t ever happen again as long as I am Baron.”

Alana nodded. After a long pause she asked tentatively, “Papa, what about Uncle Iliard?”

Bertrand gave her a startled look. “I’m going to talk to him soon. Why?”

She bit her lip and took a deep breath. “He was just taking care of me.”

Bertrand frowned in confusion, “Yes, I know. We’re going to talk about that.”

“I just wanted to tell you that,” she responded.

She looked like she was going to burst into tears, so Bertrand went over and put his arm around her shoulders. Alana turned her face into Bertrand’s tunic and put her arms around his generous waist. Bertrand stroked her hair and said, “Everything will be all right. I promise you.” With a sigh he went on, “I should go talk to your uncle. Try to get some rest.”

Alana let go of his waist and hastily wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. “All right, Papa. I will.”

“I’ll be back later,” he said gruffly.

#

Colonel Gormin came down the main staircase and saw Kira standing guard outside Bertrand’s study. He could hear Bertrand’s shouting all the way down the hallway. He went over to Kira and asked, “Have they been shouting at each other like this the whole time?”

A smile flitted briefly across Kira’s face as she answered, “The original shouting lasted about half an hour, sir. After that it was pretty quiet for a long time. This round just started up a short time ago.”

Gormin raised his eyebrows. “What do you think they’re talking about?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. I’m trying not to listen. But,” she added, “I heard Lady Alana’s name mentioned a lot. And I thought I heard Cranerock’s voice once or twice.”

Gormin frowned thoughtfully. “Can’t think what they could be talking about for all this time—especially with Cranerock.”

“I don’t know, sir, but it must be pretty important.”

“Must be.”

#

Young Bertrand Candril paced his room restlessly. He knew that his father had come back to the castle hours ago in a rage at his mother for what she had done to Alana. Bert also knew it was only a matter of time before his father found out the whole story and his role in it. His bitch of a sister probably told their father as soon as she saw him. Bert shook his head in denial of his own thought. She wasn’t like that, she never had been.

He sat down on one of the chairs in his sitting room and put his head in his hands. What the hell had he been thinking, saying something like that to Alana? She was right, he did know better. That day in the Wielder’s Glade was forever branded in his memory. He could almost see Uncle Iliard’s face—how disappointed he would be in him. Damn it! What was wrong with him? Why did he let his mother’s lies wrap around him like this?

A heavy knock on the outer door interrupted his thoughts. Bert heard the low growl of his father’s voice in the anteroom. He shot up out of his chair and stood up ramrod straight in the middle of the room like a prisoner awaiting sentencing.

Baron Bertrand Candril walked into his son’s room and saw him standing there, waiting for the punishment that would surely come. His heart contracted with pain. He had done this. He had left the boy to his own devices and his son had naturally gravitated toward his mother. He was supposed to be teaching young Bertrand how to run the barony. Instead he had shirked that responsibility because of his own distaste for the position. He let out a soft sigh and said, “Sit down, Bert. I’m not going to banish you or send you to the post.”

Bert sat back down. His father pulled another chair around and sat facing his son.

Before the Baron had settled into his seat, his son spoke. “Father, I’m sorry for what I said about Uncle Iliard. I didn’t mean it. I don’t even know why I said it.”

“I know why,” Bertrand answered. “Your sister is doing all the things you wish you could. Instead, you’re stuck here in this mausoleum waiting for me to die so you can be Baron Candril and finally do something with your life.” He cut off his son’s protests. “It’s all right, son. I know what you really want and I wish with all my heart that I could give it to you. But I cannot. You are my firstborn son and heir to the throne of Candril. I cannot change that any more than I can change the past.”

He leaned forward in his seat and continued, “But I can change the present. You’re wasting your time here. There’s nothing for you to do except go on the drives. I’ve decided to send you to university in Winlodar. Declan Neraso is sending Kalan there next year. In Winlodar you can have a little freedom and learn how to run a barony—better than I do, I’m sure.”

Young Bertrand’s eyes went wide and he stared at his father with his jaw slightly agape. “University? You’re sending me to university?”

Bertrand the Elder frowned. “Only if you want to go.”

Bert leapt out of his chair. “Want to go? Are you serious? I’ve dreamed of it all my life. I never asked because I thought you wouldn’t let me or that mother would throw a fit.”

Bertrand smiled at his son’s enthusiasm. “You’re mother probably will throw a fit, but that doesn’t concern me. She can scream until all three moons are in alignment for all I care. I should have thought of this a long time ago.” He stood and said, “All right then, I’ll arrange for you to begin your studies next month.”

Bert turned to his father, his eyes glistening. He took a step toward him, then stopped and put out his hand. “Thank you Father.”

Bertrand looked down at his son’s extended hand. He raised an eyebrow and pulled Bert into a rough embrace. For the first time in a long time, he felt he had done something right for his son.