Chapter 4
Two Months Later
Roderick Bryson
“Whoa, whoa…” Roderick held his hands up in a placating gesture.
The stallion huffed through its nostrils, scraping the sandy ground of the cavalry field with a hoof.
If he pressed much further, the horse would surely embed its frustration on his forehead.
He wasn’t sure if the Duke had meant to punish him by insisting that this particular stallion be his son’s first mount, but it sure seemed like it.
The pressure was unbearable. If Duke Ferrington’s son got hurt because of this horse, it would be his fault.
He envied the Duke. Not his title or his land.
But everything he treasured, in an abstract way.
He had a wife, a son, a true home. A family of his own.
Every time he got close to someone, had begun to welcome them into his heart, they slipped away.
He couldn’t meet their expectations. He wasn’t what they wanted.
That was why he preferred horses to people these days.
They expected nothing from him but a bucket of alfalfa and a trough of water.
If he got around to riding and training them that day, great.
If he didn’t, they patiently waited for the next day.
That was a mercy of its own. Every day was a toss up.
He wasn’t sleeping well. He ate haphazardly.
He’d push himself until his marrow ached.
Despite his foggy state of mind, he still managed to continue producing the finest mounts in all of Valeria.
His command of the Petorus knights, however, was tenuous at best. He’d delegated what he could to Octavio under the guise of focusing on breaking this horse, and endured what he couldn’t avoid.
Being around anyone besides his right-hand man was exhausting.
He was reminded of just the kind of fraud he was in the faces of folk who expected him to be Valeria’s greatest knight.
The pressures would repeat in his head every time he looked upon them.
You need to be an earl. A commander. A vassal.
A son. An heir. A friend. A savior. A knight.
A sword. A shield. An earl. A commander.
A vassal. A son. An heir. A friend. A savior.
A knight. A sword. A shield. An earl. A commander.
A vassal. A son. An heir. A friend. A savior. A knight. A sword. A shield.
The voices frayed his composure. He set his jaw, trying to keep curses from spilling out. It was a pointless exercise. The cacophony swelled to a screaming, buzzing fever pitch.
“Damn it!” He kicked a trough of water over. “Damn it all!”
“Your Grace?”
The voices ground to a halt, replaced with the jarringly gentle sounds of spring. Wind in the trees, shifting leaves, singing birds.
Octavio stopped short, obviously wary of the tension in Roderick’s heaving, frustrated breaths, and the snorting stallion beside him. “There’s—uh—a wyvern here to see you.”
“Yomira?” Roderick questioned, leading the stallion back to the stables. Yomira had been kept prisoner by the Church and experimented on. She and Millicent had escaped together. They were bonded, somehow. Yomira was constantly talking about her “sister,” who he quickly learned was Millicent.
Octavio jogged along. “Yes. It’s an emergency. There was a note tied to one of its claws. A sickness is affecting the Centarian children in Balcott. It’s waiting in the training field.”
“She. Not ‘it.’ And why didn’t you say so?
” He tossed the reins to the knight. “Finish tying this horse up.” Roderick sprinted toward the training field.
He turned the corner from the knights’ barracks and was shocked to see the purple wyvern taking up the middle of the field.
She swished her tail slowly back and forth, knocking barrels and training props over with every movement.
Her winged arms were tucked close to her side.
Squires in training were clustered at the far edge of the field looking extremely uncomfortable.
The wyvern turned at the sound of his hurried steps. Her mouth gaped as if to speak, but only grumbles came from her mouth. The words behind the sound went right into his mind, an ability unique to Centarians with ancient beasts.
Rod! Rod! It’s an emergency! There’s an illness affecting the Centarian children. They used to climb on me and jump rope with my tail, but they’ve been stuck inside for weeks. I call upon you for aid! Help my sister! She’s very worried! She said she needs you—
Millicent…needs me? His heart leapt. “Say no more. Whatever Millicent needs, I will get. Does she need me to pen a letter to their Duke? More funds?”
After he returned to Eldenkeep following the evacuation, he immediately threw himself into currying favors and funds for the newly-established Balcott Home for Children, where most of the Centarian children without parents were taken in.
It was the most worthwhile thing he’d done since the evacuation.
It was exhausting, but it helped Millicent and his people, and kept the self-loathing away for a time.
He would seize any opportunity to do it again.
The wyvern grumbled and shook her head. She’d developed surprisingly human-like mannerisms in a short amount of time.
My sister said they have plenty of funds, thanks to you.
They need some kind of magic stone? They’re the only thing that seems to relieve the children’s symptoms. The magic users can’t keep up, and blood doesn’t help much.
My sister is hoping the Crown Council will share some of its emergency stock of stones if you appeal to them.
It will be quick! I will fly you to the capital!
I’m a very good flier! I’ve been practicing!
That did not inspire confidence. But he couldn’t resist Millicent’s plea, and imagining the children stuck inside for their first spring days in a prosperous land sent cracks through his heart.
He brought a hand to his forehead. “I will speak with the Duke at once. Please wait for me here. I shouldn’t be more than an hour.”
Yomira bobbed her head up and down, then eyed a very nervous Dame Fletcher as she trudged a too-small bucket of water over for the wyvern.
Purpose pumped through his veins as he jogged back to the stables and rode over to the Duke’s estate on his starlight steed, Cyan.
The cobblestone road was lined with a perfect portrait of spring.
Flowering dogwoods canopied the way, casting dancing shadows of petals onto the stone that passed beneath his horse’s galloping hooves.
The stones were spaciously placed to allow purple clover to race between the curvatures.
Wood violets were meticulously planted between the dogwoods.
A flower petal fluttered into his face, and he palmed it to feed to Cyan when they arrived.
His mind rushed with currents of concern as the manor drew close.
The Duke was already on edge from all the time Roderick had spent away from Petorus between the evacuation and traveling to garner support for the orphanage.
But if he stayed in Petorus too long and sunk into his repetitive routine, the voices in his head got much, much worse.
He slowed Cyan to a trot in front of the manor and dismounted, letting the horse tickle his palm to find the petal.
A pair of swallows chirped back and forth, weaving between the trees as he tied the horse to a pristine wooden fence post and walked to the door.
The manor was of the finest construction, funded by the ogre bounties Eldenkeep was awarded during the last monster campaign.
Not that the Duke issued any killing blows.
The Duke had sent him in his place. And why wouldn’t he?
The Duke had a family to think of. Roderick had his parents, yes, but they’d be more than set without him if he died in the line of duty.
The door knocker was the visage of a hawk, part of the Duke’s official emblem. A hollow thud echoed through the door. A moment passed with only bird calls and Cyan’s gentle grazing filling the silence.
Duke Ferrington creaked the door open and stepped outside. He was a solid-built human with short black hair, lightly colored with patches of salty gray and a beard to match. The Duke’s height rivaled his own. “Roderick? To what do I owe the pleasure? Is my son’s horse ready?”
The Duke always preferred to greet guests himself. It was a classy endeavor, but given the past assassination attempt against the Duke that Roderick foiled, the habit only added to his long list of anxieties.
“Not yet, Your Grace. And I am afraid there may be more delay.”
The Duke sighed. “What is it this time?”
It was a double-edged question, conveying the Duke’s frustration and a warning at the same time.
Roderick needed to choose his words carefully.
Mention the sick children right off the bat and the Duke would think him a guilt-tripper.
Avoid that part altogether and risk not stoking enough emotion for the permission he needed.
“There is an illness plaguing Balcott. Their healers cannot keep up, and they are down to the last of their mana stones. They wish for me to appeal to the Crown Council for aid.”
“And why you? Their Baroness is more than capable. And last I checked, Daric has its own Duke for such matters.” The Duke lowered his eyes to a glower.
“My work on the evacuation impressed many on the Council. My position, species and reputation should sway the request to be granted. I would like to take Sir Oshfeldt with me. We will fly on the wyvern that lives in Balcott. It will be a quick journey, I swear it.”
“You test my patience, Roderick.” The Duke pinched the bridge of his nose as he pondered.
“I implore you, Your Grace. The illness is affecting many of my people.” He deliberately chose to say my people instead of children.
Inflaming the Duke’s emotions at this moment would surely turn him on the defensive.
It seemed like every conversation with his liege was a battle of its own as of late. It was exhausting.
“Fine. I had been excused from this session since my wife is due any day now. You can be useful and act as my proxy. I will have a servant bring you the regional reports. But I want you back here immediately after the Council’s final recess.
I hate to do this, but I have had you on far too long a leash this year.
You are my subject, and these people need you.
What if the warm weather stirs up the goblins?
Or Divine forbid, another drought? I owe it to this region to utilize the forces they pay taxes for. ”
“I understand, Your Grace. Thank you.” He bowed, then straightened and stepped toward Cyan.
“Roderick.”
“Yes?”
“Any delays aside from stormy skies, and I will be forced to re-evaluate your position.”
Roderick swallowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”