Castle Carduel stood out imposingly, like an eastern offshoot of the Dragon Mountains, which gradually sloped down until they were almost reflected in the waters of Crimson Lake. Once at that time, the life of the castle at the first light of dawn would have started to wake up under him, while now from the top of the highest tower Count Astor was still busy in thoughts of a past day that was still today. He became intoxicated with the fresh air.
Lower down, in her rooms, his wife Osira gathered on herself, halfway between sleep and wakefulness, so as not to disperse the heat left between the covers of her large wedding bed with embroidered sheets.
Lower still, there were the rooms of their young offspring, who were added to the Count’s children from his first marriage: the latter were named Saireth, Talimar, Gilmon and Ashlynn, while the former were called Llawenec, Liruore and Sarwyn. Some were absent, some asleep, some already awake.
At the foot of the tower, the Rooster Hall was the place where the Count spent time with his family, and where they served breakfast. At the moment the room was still empty, but soon the comings and goings of the servants would fill it with chatter, shouting and various activities in no time at all, until the Count wanted to order silence, because he was in a bad mood, or had not had a good sleep, or he wanted to have a quiet conversation with his family, or simply for whatever reason he considered valid. Indeed, all the Count’s reasons were valid, at any time, no questions asked.
The long and wide corridor that from the tower went straight through the entire internal facade of the manor, including the main door, up to the other part, where it connected to the independent kitchen building, at that moment bustling with movement, crossed a whole series of doors. Some of these went down to the cellars and were always locked, even when someone went there, as in that moment, to get some wine. Others were doors that only the Count could open, and no one but him knew where they led. At times there were rumors of prisons, torture rooms, or closets of secrets and treasure chambers, but no one who actually said so ever gave the idea of clearly knowing what he was talking about.
One door, however, was well known to all: the main one, which stood out on all the others like a mountain among the hills, located in front of the entrance we have already spoken of. Yes, that one, it was clear to everyone where it led, and, if anything, it was the opposite that would have been strange, since it always remained open, and overlooked the atrium, where distinguished guests were welcomed, and the honors were done. There were long and comfortable sofas, with tables where you could rest your legs, and on the walls shelves with books on the Count’s house, the Hargriffs, and the paintings that depicted, in different hands and in various styles, as well as in different poses, Astor and his beautiful and large family.
The paintings depicting the ancient genealogy of the lineage, arranged in chronological or thematic order, were instead located, as well as their weapons or armors, in other areas of the castle, including the corridor we have already mentioned, with one exception: the painting of Ravnos, First Count, Progenitor, who had ruled wisely even during the turbulent War of the Flames, more than three thousand years earlier.
Precisely on that painting, and on the extraordinary similarity of the profile of the nose of the man depicted with that of the current Count, the attention of Prince Daart of Valasia now lingered, who had just arrived the day before as the guest of honor of the Hargriff family at the fortress of Carduel. Later, his Hand and Counselor Vilnaur would reprimand him for the excessive freedom of movement he had taken in this initiative against such a generous host. Needless to say, he would not be heard.
From the atrium, a large staircase led to the upper floor, almost entirely filled by the immense Deer Salon, where the countless family trophies could be admired, and where the official receptions in grand style were held, which were so much talked about throughout the Kingdom, complete with rounds of dances, shows of the most varied kind, as well as the most solemn investitures. That salon was closed for the time being, but that had not stopped a licentious handmaid from being chased far and wide through its wide spaces by a perky waiter.
Those same spaces, on the upper floor, were divided almost equally, in favor of the first, between the disproportionate library, where master Pendoc had spent all night studying a ponderous tome, and the armory, where the Knight Instructor, Sir Arus, stretched his limbs in his morning exercises of physical preparation, then gripping a wooden stick to face a imaginary enemy.
Upstairs, the distinguished guest rooms, almost all occupied, now that the return of Sir Saireth, hero of the Border Wars, and his marriage to Lady Melianna of Ylgranne were approaching. Inside one of those rooms, Duke Amargein of Belbarne violently protested with his wife Guinear for the wrong he allegedly had been the victim of the night before, consisting in not having received that leg of deer that had instead fallen to Marquis Pendriath of Pervall. His wife agreed with him that there had been a clear abetting by the Count of his most regular guests, and the fact that a delegation from Yirnez, the seat of the Duchy, had not traveled further south than Dilbrian, the border fortress, for at least two centuries would certainly not have been a valid objection.
In another room, protruding like a pointed turret from the top of the keep, Princess Velavyr of Argonne wept rivers of tears, as the honor of her house forced her to attend the wedding of her beloved Saireth while she herself was unmarried, and he apparently did not reciprocate her feelings, but she had dreamed of him so many times. Her brother, Aldrith, tried to console her, but in vain.
Another pointed turret, but larger and developing from an oblique base, rose on the keep of Carduel, and served as an aviary. A hooded figure, cloaked in gray, just then had just finished entrusting a message to the paw of a young and well-trained hawk, which he was now releasing into the skies.
From the top of his keep, Astor saw her, but did not recognize her, or did not want to. Rather, he took that vision as a sign that the day had begun, and it was time to get busy.
So, he went down to the bedroom door, ordered the servant to prepare Osira to come down, and went to visit his children, after the same purpose.
Then he went to the Rooster Hall, sipped the cup of amber wine that was brought to him, dipped his mustache in milk, and dissipated the last fumes of sleep, waiting for what was yet to come.
The day, which had never ended, had now begun again anyway.
* * *
The Rooster Hall was filled with colorful tapestries, which mostly depicted hunting scenes, everyday life, or even knightly tournaments, with exceptionally spectacular and lively inlays. But a tapestry dominated everyone, behind the imposing seat that rightfully belonged to the Count, at the head of the table: the one that portrayed the large rooster constituting the heraldic coat of arms of the House of Hargriff, yellow and orange, with a red crest and green legs, on a purple field. This representation, which loomed over everything, was singularly vivid, albeit stylized, and unique in its kind in using more colors than the family uniform (red and green) represented. It was therefore held particularly dear by the Count and the men of the castle, as a treasure trove of identity.
Legend had it that more than a thousand years earlier, the first Count Ravnos had encountered a sign of good luck and prosperity: a large rooster, whose head overlooked the treetops, had appeared before him at dawn, and indicated with his paw the point of the ground where the first stone of the great tower would have been placed.
Now, countless generations of Counts after him, Astor of Hargriff sat in his place, beneath the tapestry, and was engrossed in contemplation of a distant thought in his mind, when his third son, Gilmon, lord of Lancan, made his entrance into the hall.
“Good morning, father.”
“Take your seat. Start your day by eating this rich table, my son! You will find everything you want there.”
The whole family, except Saireth and Talimar, who had yet to return, were at the table, some on the right, some on the Count’s left. There were also some of his children who were illegitimate of him.
Gilmon, vaguely uneasy, found a seat next to Ashlynn, stared for a moment at Llawenec, who seemed still only half awake, and, before sitting down, out of politeness, nodded slightly to the Count’s second wife, Osira, for a few seats. a little further.
Gilmon had only arrived from Lancan the night before, and had not yet had a chance to talk with his father, so he found Astor’s warm welcome odd, usually being the latter so harsh. It was hard to hear him say a sentence that did not sound like a battle order.
Gilmon’s long absence from Carduel could partly motivate such a munificent demonstration, just as it could be hypothesized that the age and the assiduous and attentive presence in the life of his younger children had softened him a little… but in his heart Gilmon knew that more likely it had to depend on the joy the Count felt as the long-awaited moment approached when he could reunite with his beloved Saireth, whose procession had already been spotted in the County and whose arrival was scheduled for the same day. A few years of fighting a stupid border war with savages, and here he was returning as a hero.
Gilmon, on the other hand, despite all his efforts and even a certain ingenuity in administering the Lancan territories in the best possible way, with the proceeds from two extraordinary harvests, a rebellion quelled without the use of additional external troops, and many other worthy achievements of praise achieved by him over the years, still found no glory or honor in the eyes of his father or his subjects.
“What news does the Lord of Lancan bring me from his lordship?” Astor asked, sipping some wine.
“Saireth is coming with Talimar today,” Sarwyn observed, his voice ringing. His mother motioned him to be quiet.
“A wind of good fortune brings me to the mansion of my father and Count. The investigation of my informants finds that the discontent among the commoners is completely quelled, while the wine, cereal, fruit, and vegetable harvest is expected to be abundant, and all the conditions exist for an increase in the tax on wheat and barley, as well as of tolls.”
“An increase in the toll, you say?” retorted the Count, frowning. “What do you want, to keep all this goodness that Arhat produced just for you? Don’t you think it would be wise to facilitate trade with the neighboring counties of Gidlas and Burme? In exchange, fish from Estran, and fine fabrics imported from Strago or the principality of Flann, will be able to arrive, not to mention the spices and exotic flavors of these lands. Wealth must not stagnate, but contribute to a flourishing growth in the mutual interest of all territories.”
Gilmon, between mouthfuls, chuckled softly. “Let them keep their fish and their pepper! As for the first, we can have it come from Crimson Lake, or from Lanfith, and we will gladly do without the second! A people that tastes strange flavors feeds strange thoughts, and who knows whether they are not thoughts of revolt! I rather think of keeping my men alert and ready, waiting for the day when we will take back the territories of Brasche, and advance in the plains of Brenne with banners spread like sails in the wind!”
The Count threw a glance of lightning at his third son. The rivalry between Brenne and Hargriff was ancient and deep-rooted, but Astor believed he knew it longer than all of his ancestors, starting with his father Telmen up to the first generation.
“Fool!” he yelled at him. “We no longer harbor thoughts of war, but we desire the prosperous fertility of our county. We will not advance on the territories of those whom madly we declared enemies in the past, but we will negotiate with them agreements of exchange, and the hostility that separated us will be nothing but matter of songs, historical evocations and tournaments, when the bard will have finished other stories, or the memory will claim a pledge, or the knight will join the knight at the sound of the trumpet, waving the ancient and always loved banner!”
Ashlynn, the fourth child, spoke up. “The Count intends to establish peaceful relations with the whole kingdom.”
“Is this your will, father?” his son advanced doubtfully.
“So I spoke. I’m amazed you didn’t know before I even opened my mouth. Have you ever seen me rowing towards war?”
“There are those who believe that the War of Flowers twenty years ago was born from the intrigues you plotted with the Lords of Warlach. And mind you, I would not blame you if these rumors corresponded to the truth, because power is an iron chainmail, woven with cunning even more than with strength. And now, do you mean to turn your back on all the dead who fell in those days, coming to terms with the enemy? Having reached this point, why not invite an ambassador of Brenne to celebrate with us this evening?”
“On the contrary, our work will honor the glorious fallen in the most worthy way. But on one point, contrary to what you think, be aware that you are not mistaken, son. Grand Duke Agravain himself will attend our banquet tonight.”
“Outrage! What do my ears hear? Is my father playing a strange trick on me, making fun of my trust in him by provoking me through words of derision?”
“Not at all. He will be accompanied by the Grand Duchess Ygwyrien, their sons Aramand, Danthos and Gwervaine, the guard led by Ser Grigolas of Lohort and a retinue of noble companions. They will arrive today.”
Gilmon rose to his feet, startled and indignant. “This is madness! They shouldn’t even set foot in our County! How could the Count of Hargriff wish that scum to muddy the banquet for his son’s return with their presence? How can my father really want to allow all this?”
“Calm down, brother!” declared Ashlynn, who also partly understood his shame. She had long wished she could fight like a man, and prove his worth in battle, but all she could do was join the fray in a tournament. She had not fared badly, of course, but in that trial she certainly had not found the worth that could be reached in a real conflict. However, her father had strenuously rejected the idea that she could accompany Saireth in the border wars against the Qellar, and instead insisted that Talimar do so, though he had no wish to.
The Count looked Gilmon in his eyes for a long time, then, with composure, took the napkin from the table and calmly wiped the corners of his mouth, before starting to speak again.
Meanwhile, his son, letting go of his anger, sat down again, once more upset. His glassy gaze pierced the bunches of grapes on the table, as in a shooting contest quick arrows hit the target.
“Gilmon, I am no longer a youngster. I have to think about what I will leave you when I go. And I don’t mean my legacy in the guise of a new War of Rivals, but rather an era of peace and prosperity, in which the Royal Visit leaves new blessings every time… and perhaps, who knows, we even dare to envision a new Age of the Primarchs, although this is nothing more than an old man’s dream. You know, old age brings wisdom with it, they say, and I’m finding myself thinking differently about many things I used to think. For example, I believe I could please Talimar, and allow him to wear the robe of the Brothers of Rostam, as he has long desired to. I wonder what will become of me when the time finally comes. I am reading and rereading a book that Brother Pwyll recommended to me several times. It is called ‘The Communion of the Kingdom,’ and it is an appeal to the wise rulers so that they come to calibrate the relations between the provinces on an ideal of peace, through benevolent negotiations and mutual agreements of exchange that guarantee common prosperity. For this reason, I want to forge new friendly relationships with our past enemies, who also prove to be sympathetic to these intentions of mine, a higher ideal that has providentially intervened to overcome by now ancient disputes. What does it matter today to reclaim the cities of Kenedic, Laramant and Galehet? And what should they want from Limòrr? For centuries now, each of them have solidly depended on their own belonging, and it would be futile and vain to snatch them from their centuries-old dominion.”
Llawenec took the opportunity to show off his knowledge. “Master Pendoc taught us that the War of Rivals broke out in the twenty-fifth century due to the strife for the title of Master of the Quest and ended with the Peace of Eliarre, more than a hundred years later…”
“There was the duel of champions between Calgar and Elkorr!” Sarwyn added, anxious not to be outdone.
“There were so many things. It was a long war,” Llawenec retorted, with a knowing air.
“You’re nasty,” Sarwyn scolded.
“Stop it!” said Liruore, who rarely spoke.
The Count sighed, tired of the subject and of the discussion.
Gilmon pressed on instead. “I have men in each of the cities you have named, father. Cities harassed by the taxation of Brenne, dominated by tyrannical lords who do not refrain from any sort of violence and abuse, cities that are waiting to be freed!”
“The same could be said of your domains, son, according to the intentions you just proclaimed. I will raise taxes, impose higher tolls, block trade. Or am I the one who imagined it? How do you think the people will react? In no time at all, you will find yourself facing another rebellion, and who knows if once again you will be able to suppress it without having to ask me for support!”
“…and those territories are just the beginning. The ultimate goal is to wipe their Grand Duchy off the face of the earth!” Gilmon continued undaunted.
“That will never be! It is such ideas that will be canceled, starting tonight!” the Count proclaimed vehemently.
“I will not accept the Brennese at my table, father!” Gilmon snapped, exasperated. “Theirs is nothing but a story of wars that cannot see but clashes, alternating victories and defeats, against our County, for centuries and centuries since the crown was placed on the head of the First King!”
Astor frowned, then pulled himself together, and with seraphic calm added, “May Arhat have him in glory, my son. I haven’t forgotten it. On the contrary, think about how the history books will remind us. We will be the Men of the Kingdom, devoted to a mission of peace as sacred as the ancient Quest of Valant. The War of the Flames was punished with the Great Upheavals. What will the Perpetual Peace of Arhat be rewarded with if it is maintained? Think about it.”
“I just think you must have listened too much to Brother Pwyll’s delusions lately. Perpetual Peace? Such is the way that leads to the tomb!”
“Brother, enough!” Ashlynn added.
“War is the way to the grave, fool. Be careful, Gilmon, because even the tongue has its weight. And if, by measuring it, it should be found excessive, who knows it won’t be cut.”
Gilmon rose to his feet again, with a newfound and even more ferocious decision. “Are you threatening me now? What will you do, command my execution? Of course, you would not lose much in getting rid of your third child, because today your favorite son will arrive to console you for any disappointment the other degenerate children may give you!”
And, saying so, he pointed the index finger of his right hand against his father, in an accusatory way.
Ashlynn also stood up, and tugged at the hem of her brother’s robe to make him restrain himself. “What are you saying, Gilmon? Please, jealousy and envy do not suit your nobility and wisdom! Stop this madness!”
Astor looked at the finger pointed at him by his son and his face took on a look of terrifying severity. “I repeat, Gilmon, Lord of Lancan, for the last time, in the name of the King, be careful what you say. I may decide that you are, after all, too young and reckless to fill the position you hold. I have a serious intention of redeeming myself, and I will not allow the opinions of a warmonger to ruin the party for Saireth’s return and an opportunity to establish lasting peaceful relations with Brenne after centuries and centuries of wars!”
Gilmon lowered his finger and then his head, looking sad but still proud, and declared, “Father, the decision on my office be left to you. But with respect and dignity, in safeguarding your intentions and my honor, I inform you that I will not take part in the festivities, to retire to my mansion in Lancan. I will not stay to see the pride of the Hargriffs decline after the rise of the Lords of Brenne. My regards to Saireth.”
And, bowing down, he left the hall, while Astor could not believe his ears and, standing up, hurled a plate full of bread against the wall, raging, “Fool! Go, therefore, with my curses! May the corridors of Lancan devour your hated soul! Are you still my son?”
“Father, please calm down. You know Gilmon is stubborn!” Ashlynn begged him.
Osira thought it best to take the children away. Astor would calm down once he had time to rationalize.
“Saireth is arriving today with Talimar,” Sarwyn said as he followed his mother, innocent, naive.
Above all of them, from his privileged position, the rooster continued to observe, impassive.