6. Rothgar
ROTHGAR
Iset another patrol report atop the growing stack beside my desk.
“The southern perimeter remains understaffed,” I begin, tracing a finger along the map spread before me. “Move two squads from the western district. Smuggling has declined since the river inspections increased.”
Captain Dresk cocks his head, thoughtful. “It will leave the western watch lighter than usual,” he muses.
“The western border has remained quiet for six months,” I counter. “The southern quarter has not.”
My captain nods once, already reaching for the amended orders.
Captain Dresk slides the next report across my desk. Storm-tithe revenues from the western districts have fallen below projection, prompting another review of collection routes before I move on to conduit repair requests awaiting authorization.
None of these matters is urgent on its own. That is precisely why they deserve attention now. A lord who neglects small failures eventually inherits catastrophic ones.
Just as my hand settles on the report, a knock sounds at the study doors.
“Enter.”
Commander Vhoros enters before Captain Dresk has finished collecting the amended patrol orders.
“Speak,” I tell him without looking up from the map.
“My lord, an unusual visitor is requesting an audience.”
My attention remains on the southern patrol routes.
“Humans do not request audiences with House Stromgarde, Commander. They petition magistrates, guilds, or whichever official is empowered to refuse them.”
“I informed her of that.”
That earns a glance.
“And yet you’re here,” I reply dryly.
“Yes, my lord.”
Vhoros is not a man given to interruptions. If he has brought this matter before the morning reports are finished, he has already decided it falls outside the ordinary procedures of the household.
I set my quill aside at last.
“What is her name?”
“Calla Alder.”
The name brushes against memory without finding purchase.
I finish reviewing the amended patrol routes before setting the report aside.
“Captain,” I say, “see the orders carried out.”
Dresk bows once and leaves the study. Only after the door closes do I return my attention to Vhoros.
“Continue.”
Vhoros nods.
“She serves House Malakor as a court musician. She refused to state her business to the gate guards. She gave only her name and insisted the matter be placed before you personally.”
That changes the conversation.
Yesterday, Malakor sought to secure influence over House Stromgarde beneath the King’s gaze. Today, a member of his household appears unannounced at my gates requesting a private audience.
It is precisely the sort of quieter maneuver he would prefer once formal diplomacy has failed him.
“I see no reason to indulge whatever game Lord Malakor believes—”
I stop.
At last the name finds its owner.
I see her again beneath the chandeliers of Malakor’s banquet hall, lute still in hand as the guests drift back into their conversations. When our eyes met, she held my gaze for the briefest moment, without mistaking the gesture for equality or shrinking from it in fear.
The moment was brief, but somehow, I remembered it.
“She refused to explain her business to the guards. Only that it concerns Lord Malakor and that she would speak of it only with you.”
If Malakor had sent her, she would have carried credentials or written authority. Instead, she arrived with only her name. Whatever has brought her here belongs to her, not to him. That possibility is considerably more interesting.
I rise from my chair and walk toward the windows overlooking the inner courtyards. The estate moves with its usual discipline. Servants cross the courtyards according to routines established generations ago, while lightning races through the conduits feeding every corner of the spire.
Experience teaches a man where to look. Once you understand how a thing ordinarily behaves, the smallest deviation becomes impossible to ignore.
Calla Alder is precisely such a deviation.
Malakor has never struck me as a man who wastes effort without expecting a return, which makes me reluctant to dismiss this before understanding why.
I turn back toward Vhoros.
“Bring her inside.”
The faintest flicker of surprise crosses his face before discipline smooths it away.
“To the metallic gardens.”
“Very well, my lord.”
After he departs, I gather the scattered patrol reports into a single orderly stack before leaving the study myself.
The metallic gardens occupy the northern terraces enclosed by towering obsidian walls that shelter them from the strongest mountain winds. Few visitors expect to find gardens within a fortress, fewer still expect these.
Silver vines climb black stone trellises in graceful spirals, their leaves hammered so thin they tremble whenever the wind passes through them.
Golden flowers bloom eternally from branches of polished bronze, each petal crafted with such precision that they seem almost capable of breathing.
Narrow streams of liquid mercury wind between carefully arranged pathways before spilling into a circular fountain at the garden’s center.
The cascading metal catches the stormlight overhead, transforming each flash of lightning into rivers of liquid silver.
Most visitors arrive expecting a display of wealth and leave uncertain whether the gardens were intended to impress or unsettle them.
That uncertainty is deliberate. Certainty has a way of disguising people. Remove it, and they often reveal themselves.
I stop beside the fountain.
Mercury pours endlessly over sculpted black stone without escaping the channels built to contain it. Its beauty exists because someone understood its nature well enough to guide it rather than oppose it.
Kingdoms are rarely so different.
Yesterday’s audience returns to me despite my efforts to leave it behind. Malakor came expecting agreement dressed as diplomacy, while the King needed only a single question before silence accomplished the rest.
Now Calla Alder arrives carrying some unknown purpose of her own. Whether she seeks aid, delivers warning, or unknowingly serves another’s design matters less than the simple fact that she chose my gates instead of anyone else’s.
My gaze lands upon the mercury cascading through the fountain. Footsteps approach along the stone path beyond the fountain. I hear the hesitation in them before I even turn to look. Whoever approaches is trying very hard to appear composed.
The mercury continues its endless descent over polished stone, every ripple disappearing almost as soon as it forms.
Most disturbances reveal themselves for what they are once examined closely. As the footsteps come to a halt behind me, I suspect this one will prove considerably more difficult.
I turn to face the woman bold enough to walk willingly into the heart of House Stromgarde.