Chapter 22: Money and Schemes

  For the first time in months, the fireplace in Lord Eldric’s study was cold. No coals warmed the stones, or smoke curled up the chimney. All the windows were open, and through them drifted the promise of summer, the aroma of fresh greenery and tilled earth. Outside, the manor’s grounds were alive with the rustle of early leaves and the quiet procession of the season turning.

  Inside, the air was still, but sober with purpose.

  Lord Eldric sat behind a desk of dark, heavy oak, his hands folded loosely before him. He looked not at the ledger lying open in front of him, but at the woman who stood beside it—his wife, Lady Seraphine, her sharp gaze skimming line after line with quiet intensity.

  Across from them, standing with his usual posture of restrained precision, was Baelric, steward of the house. He bore the face of a man who had anticipated this meeting and still wished he could be anywhere else.

  Seraphine’s voice sliced through the quiet:

  “Why have our household expenses increased last month?”

  Baelric straightened slightly, already prepared. “My lady, the changes are not extreme, but they are notable. Increased traffic through the east wing—related to the boy’s lessons—has led to more frequent shifting of items and a few minor breakages. Chalk orders have increased fivefold, and the last of the sugar and honey stores are being consumed at a rate previously unheard of. In the past week alone, they have eaten enough sugar, in celebration, to outfit a squire for a year.

  Seraphine muttered, barely audible, “The children will eat us out of house and home.”

  Lord Eldric allowed himself a wry smile. “Let them. We can afford it.” He turned his attention to Baelric. “And the caravan? How do we stand?”

  Baelric’s expression brightened slightly. “Better than past years, my lord. The surplus from the Battle of the Hollow, combined with the household’s careful restraint, leaves us well-positioned. We are able to send a full caravan—seven Ox wagons just for House Avalon—and we have two full companies in support. And this year, we can offer many spaces to nearby houses and carry their orders as well.”

  Seraphine lifted her gaze from the ledger, one brow raised. “Amberwine?”

  Baelric smiled. “The merchants have agreed to 6 casks.”

  Before another word could be exchanged, a soft light began to glow from the shelf behind the desk.

  A blue gem embedded in a small wooden box shimmered faintly—calm, steady. All three turned instinctively toward it. The cause was a blue box, modest but functional, that had served them for years.

  Then, without warning, a second light flared—orange, deep and pulsing—from the box beside it.

  It came from a vessel of dark nightwood, its surface smooth and cool, etched with intricate silver glyphs. The craftsmanship was unmistakable: a second Correspondence Box, this one bound with Orange Essence.

  Baelric’s mouth parted in quiet surprise. “Is that a second…?”

  “Yes,” Seraphine said, her voice controlled but unmistakably tense. “It is a second Correspondence Box.”

  She and Eldric exchanged a glance—one of silent understanding. They both knew what the light meant.

  Eldric rose without haste. He crossed to the shelf and opened the blue box first. Inside lay a small stack of folded letters—each already read, each bearing the familiar mark of border lords or minor houses. He retrieved the stack and passed it wordlessly to Baelric.

  Then he turned to the orange box, which continued to pulse. He unlatched it. A single sealed letter waited within, bound with silver thread. He broke the seal, unfolded the parchment, and read it—once, and only once.

  His expression did not change. Without comment, he folded the letter and tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat.

  Baelric said nothing. He knew better.

  Seraphine, however, watched her husband closely. “What does he say?”

  Eldric looked to her. “Nothing urgent. Not yet.”

  Baelric took a small step back, bowing slightly. “I’ll read these household letters and return shortly, my lord, my lady.”

  They nodded. He turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

  Seraphine stood silently for a moment longer, gazing at the dimmed orange gem. Then, slowly, she turned.

  “Well?” she asked.

  Eldric reached into his coat and withdrew the letter. He unfolded it and handed it to her without a word.

  The parchment was crisp, the script strong and unmistakable: Master Halvo’s hand.

  The House of Avalon,

  From Master Halvo, Collegium Sanctum

  Your previous letter is… concerning. He should not be recovering this quickly. It is not expected.

  I will be sending my disciple as soon as they are ready.

  In the meantime, I strongly suggest invoking the Tribute of Standing. The church will be sending acolytes into your lands to investigate the matter regarding the boy. Since there is no abbey or chapel in your domain, you are within your rights to charge them tribute—no less than twenty silver coins per church member. Use this precedent. Delay where you can.

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  Further, I advise caution regarding your daughter. Rumors have begun at court. More than one house is already scheming to send household sons or favored retainers under the pretense of the caravan, hoping to meet your daughter. You understand what they truly seek.

  You must control the flow of guests to the manor and make clear that you are restricting entry due to your daughter’s early awakening of affinity. The less attention she draws, the safer she will remain—for now.

  May the veil hold.

  —Halvo

  Seraphine read it twice, then set the letter gently on the desk.

  Her fingers lingered on the parchment, her jaw tightening. “They’re circling already,” she said, voice low. “And she’s only twelve.”

  Eldric nodded grimly. “They see a future advantage and want to stake their claim before she even comes of age.”

  “She won’t be of age until nineteen,” Seraphine said, her eyes cold now. “And I’ll not have her treated like a prize at auction.”

  Eldric met her gaze. “Then let them whisper and scheme. But they’d do well to remember—this house guards its own.”

  She nodded once. “And Lisette is not theirs to court. She’s ours to raise.”

  …

  Sanctum of Ashen Veil

  In the heart of the northern hills, beneath skies eternally smeared in ash and cloud, stood the Sanctum of Ashen Veil—a monument carved from sorrow and stone. Its black towers pierced the heavens like fingers of judgment, weather-worn but proud. Gargoyles clung to the high gutters, leering down through centuries of rain and repentance. Inside, the nave was a forest of columns, each one carved with saints in agony or ecstasy—few could tell the difference. Stained glass windows lined the walls in hues of blood-red, sulfur gold, and bruised violet, casting fractured light across the flagstones.

  The air was thick with candle smoke and centuries of confession.

  Within a dim chamber behind the high altar, seated on a narrow wooden chair with no cushion, was Father Morden. He was a man of angular lines and deliberate movements—lean to the point of gauntness, with a long face and pinched mouth that rarely smiled except in irony. His robes were modest and unadorned, with a plain cord belt. He wore no rings, no chain, no gold. He had long since renounced the trappings of wealth, not out of piety but out of contempt. Wealth softened men, and Morden preferred his mind as honed and dry as the parchment he bled ink upon.

  His fingers were bony, long and pale, like the legs of some ancient insect, and they twitched rhythmically against the arms of his chair—a habit of thought.

  Standing before him, shifting nervously, was Brother Renn—a greasy, pale-skinned acolyte with damp palms and a faint smell of tallow and nervous ink.

  Morden spoke, voice quiet and sharp like a knife being honed.

  “Brother Renn. You will go south. To the Lands of Avalon.”

  The acolyte blinked, his throat bobbing. “Y-yes, Father. To… observe?”

  “You are to learn,” Morden said, voice tightening, “and confirm what I fear.”

  He drew a breath—heavy and slow.

  “The second son. The boy. The Wasting Illness marked him. Eternal Punishment.”

  Morden’s fingers twitched once.

  “Only one other soul in recorded memory has recovered from it. And now he is the second.”

  He leaned forward, his expression unreadable, eyes like cold stones.

  “Yet, we do not know if it is a miracle… or blasphemy.”

  Renn’s mouth went dry.

  Morden continued, voice softening but not warming.

  “Her ladyship has had a vision. Not the boy. No. She believes…”

  He paused, then corrected himself.

  “She believes that an unholy soul has slipped back into the world. And we must find the truth.”

  He rose, slowly. His robe hung like a shadow around him.

  “Does it live within the boy?” he murmured. “Before he fell ill, he was sharp. Martial, like his blood. Fond of the saddle. Of the hunt. Of speed and wind and freedom.”

  He tapped one long, knotted finger once against the armrest.

  “Which is why the Collegium approved the soul-binding. If he rises from his sickbed, if he recovers, if he gains strength enough to ride again…”

  Morden’s eyes narrowed.

  “…he will shatter the binding. And if that happens, we will know—beyond doubt—what sleeps within him.”

  Brother Renn swallowed hard, gathering what little courage he had. “Why the binding, Father?”

  Morden turned his gaze fully on him.

  “To delay,” he said, his voice low, precise.

  “To suppress what they fear.”

  His lip curled faintly.

  “But the Church,” he added, “was not consulted in this.”

  He leaned in, close enough for Renn to feel the cold in his breath.

  “We were not asked.”

  Renn shifted nervously. “W-what is it you want me to do, Father?”

  “You will go to Avalon under the pretense of land assessment. Say you are exploring the potential for a chapel site—perhaps a minor cloister or a saint’s walk. Suggest investment. Speak kindly of opportunity and peace. They will welcome it, if only out of caution.”

  Renn nodded, his quill forgotten in one hand.

  “While there,” Morden continued, circling him slowly, “you will take notes. On the boy’s condition, his mind, his voice. On the girl’s talents—what kind of affinity she shows, how strong, and how aware she is of it.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “And you will look beyond them. You will learn of the land itself. Are there ley lines? Forgotten wells? Signs of relics or divine residue? If so, you will report. Immediately. Anything of value—arcane, ecclesiastic, or political—must be brought to the church’s attention.”

  Renn dared to look up. “Do… do you expect conflict?”

  Morden’s smile returned, colder now. “No. Not at first. But if House Avalon has been allowed to flourish unobserved, if they harbor power, and keep it from our eyes…”

  He trailed off, then added, “We may require a firmer hand.”

  There was silence for a moment, save the distant sound of a hundred choir voices echoing from the nave in timeless, wordless chant.

  Morden returned to his seat and folded his hands. “Find someone inside the manor who will report back to us. A servant, a guard, a scribe. Someone whose loyalty can be purchased. We’ll not rely on your quill alone.”

  Renn bowed deeply, trembling. “I—I will do all that is asked.”

  Morden raised his goblet, partaking of the water inside. “Of course you will, dear Brother. The path of service is paved with obedience. Now go. And remember…”

  He raised one bony finger, and his voice resonated through the dark Sanctum:

  “The church of Ashen Veil does not ask twice.”

  As Brother Renn departed, the choir’s low chant followed him—its tone reverent, ancient, and filled with words of hunger and Ash.