Ravens, Owls and a nightingale

2. Father & Son

The door was indeed heavy, and it felt especially heavy when one tried to open it while simultaneously balancing a large breakfast tray in just one hand. Schean cursed under his breath, briefly contemplated just putting the tray down for a moment, then decided to make one more effort before admitting defeat. This time he managed to get a proper hold of the iron handle and jerk it hard enough to open the door.

He heard immediately that the boy wasn't alone, and from the happy laughter that greeted his ears, the minstrel could guess well enough what he'd see inside. Indeed, his courteous bow was acknowledged by not one but two people, sitting in the deep window recess. The boy flashed Schean a huge smile while the man just nodded briefly.

Ranea's beloved father... The minstrel approached the incongruous pair with a suitably respectful demeanor and placed the tray on the bench beside the boy, feeling the weight of the Lord's black gaze on him. He'd seen them together innumerous times over the past two years, usually in this very room, but this was the first time when he'd actually walked in on them like this. Mostly the man would come in the afternoon or evening, after bathing and changing for dinner, and that was a time of the day when Schean would be with the Ranea. He'd be there to hear the heavy footfall outside the door, to see the boy's face light up and to hear him breathe out 'it's my father!' just moments before the door would open, revealing the large frame that momentarily filled it completely.

"See, Bengor, he's brought you your breakfast. Now I want to see you eat properly."

"I'm eating already!" The boy snatched a piece of bread from a small basket and stuffed into his mouth. "No, no, Heliet, don't go! I want you to stay here and play for us. You'll hear it too, father, won't you?"

"I'm afraid I can't stay long to listen. I need to look at some new horses brought to us this morning, to see if they are any good."

The boy made a face, and his father's big hand, a hand that could wield a broadsword like it was a mere stick, rose to ruffle his hair. "But don't worry, I'm not going yet. Eat now."

Schean sat obediently down on a small stool and began to tune his lute, all the while stealing glances at the father and son. Seeing them together was always equally fascinating, because at first glance the two didn't really look at all alike.

To the minstrel, Lord Rhodan-Omeasch had always been the quintessential Revnashi: even if he wasn't the tallest nor the broadest man Schean had ever encountered, he was big and strong and dark, and looked just about as soft as a stone wall. Lord Rhodan was massive and yet agile, like the captive bear Schean had once seen at a market, with a matching rough low voice and a head of unruly, tightly curled jet-black hair that was only beginning to show the first dusting of gray.

The Lord's son, on the other hand, was lanky and elegant like his mother, and also sported a gleaming brown, slightly wavy hair that might have had a hint of red in the sun, if the sun could ever kiss it nowadays. And yet, a closer look revealed that the boy had the same shape and color of the eyes and eyebrows as his father, the same angular face and proud carriage. It was just that his too thin frame lacked the muscle or even baby fat that would have softened the picture. In the boy, all the angles were too pronounced, too obvious.

The young minstrel could see fear in the Lord's dark eyes as the man looked at the Ranea. Lord Rhodan loved his only son with a tenderness that was completely at odds with his appearance and his usual gruff manner towards people. Of the several children that his haughty wife had borne him, only three had survived. And only one of them was a boy, his only son and heir, his greatest delight – and also his greatest sorrow, for everyone was sure that Bengor-Omeasch-nea wouldn't live to see maturity. However, nobody in their right minds ever said it aloud whenever Lord Rhodan was within hearing distance. Even though the Lord was generally considered cunning and calculating rather than brash and hot-headed, a mere suggestion that Bengor just might not outlive his father by several decades was a sure way to make the Lord very, very angry.

Sometimes, in his more cynical moments, Schean wondered whether the Lord really loved his son so much that he couldn't bear the thought of losing him, or if he somehow took it as a personal affront that his determination just wasn't enough to make the boy strong and healthy? That he perhaps just hated it when someone had the guts to remind him of the fact that there were things he couldn't bend to his will? But then, when the minstrel next saw them together, he was ashamed of such doubts. After all, didn't bears care for their cubs as well... so why not a Revnashi lord of a castle?

"What do we need new horses for?"

The Ranea had eaten with obvious relish, but now he clearly had got enough. Quite as clearly the Lord was thinking that he hadn't eaten half as much as he should. The man shook his head and sighed, but decided not to press it.

"For the soldiers, Bengor. We need more riders."

"Why?"

"Because they can move so much more quickly than footmen. Sometimes speed is more important than just numbers." The Lord's mouth, framed by a black full beard, pulled into a fond smile. "Our area is growing larger, and we must be able to move swiftly when necessary."

Larger indeed... the minstrel stifled a sigh. Since succeeding his father as the Lord of Deleon, some twenty years earlier, Lord Rhodan had already more than doubled his land holdings. He still wasn't much over forty, and it was anybody's guess how much more powerful Deleon would be by the time he'd finally succumb to old age – provided, of course that he wouldn't manage to contract some deadly illness, or get himself killed in battle one of these days. Which was, in Schean's opinion, an eminently likely fate for such a seasoned warhorse. Then again, the persistent and determined and power-greedy Lord might just as well continue to survive all those bigger and smaller battles, like he'd done for years already, and then? Who could guess how large a realm he'd one day leave to his son?

Said son, feeling his father's worried gaze, was dutifully nibbling on a pastry and looking thoughtful.

"But is it then a good thing to have such a large area after all?" he asked after a moment's deliberation. "If it becomes more difficult to defend?"

Schean, who had already got his lute tuned, held his breath in anticipation of the answer and pretended to have trouble with the very last string. The Lord smiled to his son.

"Of course a large area has its drawbacks," he said. "But at the same time a large realm means more people, more villages, more fields. So there are more people to support us, and our army."

"But don't we then need a bigger army, too, to look after all of that?" Bengor went on. "And a bigger army again costs a lot more to keep up."

"An army doesn't necessarily have to be huge, if it's well-trained," his father replied. "People who know what they are doing are more efficient than an ill-disciplined lot."

Schean suppressed a shudder and began to play quietly, but the boy just nodded slowly.

"I see, father." He thought about this for a while, then continued: "But then, why do we need so many people to support the army?"

"In that way, a single village doesn't have to pay too much tax in return for protection," the Lord said. "Taxing them dead would be a suicide. If we suck the villages dry, who'll pay taxes in a few years? Who ploughs the fields, who sows the seed, who harvests it? No, we don't need empty lands, Bengor. We want lands with fertile fields and fat cattle, and enough able-bodied people to look after them."

Schean had to grudgingly admit, and not for the first time, that Lord Rhodan just might have the makings of more than just a warrior. Even if the man's motives mainly arose from cold reasoning, perhaps he still had at least a spark of understanding towards the plight of his soldiers and the people living around Deleon Castle? That would've been more than could be said of many other Lords, and as far as the minstrel was concerned, it was also a big point in his favor.

A small, not very childish smile tugged the boy's lips. "I think I understand. Was that why you were so angry with Count Garrell a while ago?"

"Ho? And how do you know about that?" Lord Rhodan tilted his head at his son. Bengor looked smug.

"Heliet told me about it. He told me what you said about the way his men had behaved."

"Did he now," the Lord muttered, and behind the hair that so conveniently kept falling in front of Schean's face as he played, the minstrel saw that the man shot him a half suspicious, half amused glance. "Well, that's what it was about. And good riddance to them!"

"Yes, and I was a little puzzled as to why you were so terribly angry, but now I understand very well. And I agree, father. It was very stupid of them," the boy said with a firm nod. "It turns the people against the troops."

"Exactly!" The man's big fist clenched and hit on his sturdy thigh. "I should've liked to skin the moron alive..."

No wonder the Lord was still seething; the incident had happened only a few days earlier. He had just been discussing his modus operandi with some new captains, when word had reached him that people from a neighboring village had sent a small delegation to see him. He'd gone to meet them and heard their complaint: their village, not too far from the castle, had suffered great damage in the hands of some troops who hadn't been satisfied with the supplies they'd got from there. Worse, the troops belonged to Count Garrell, one of the numerous mercenary captains traveling around and selling their and their own little armies' services to willing buyers – and Count Garrell had pledged to serve Deleon Castle at least for the next year. In other words, the village had been pillaged by the very men who were supposed to protect it.

Schean had been present, originally to lend the dinner a more laid-back and informal air, but no music could've been enough to soothe the Lord's rage at the news. He hadn't spared his words, and in Schean's opinion it was a miracle that no major scuffle had ensued. He'd affected nonchalance as best he could, ready to bolt at the first sign of violence, but both parties had somehow managed to keep themselves just barely under enough control. The Count had been gritting his teeth during the rest of the dinner – and left the castle with his army soon thereafter.

"No you shouldn't, father," Bengor said and went to sit next to the Lord. "But it was good that you let him know what you thought about it. And I'm sure nobody misses his troops too much."

"Well, I for one don't miss them at all," Lord Rhodan grunted. "It was unforgivable. Desperate people do desperate things, and if the villagers don't feel they can trust us, they might turn against the soldiers... or seek protection from other castles. That's the very last thing I want to see."

Loyalty – that was what the Lord wanted, from his hired mercenaries as well as from his own soldiers, his servants, even from the people over whom he ruled. Schean had overheard hints of it before and here it was again, spelled out by Lord Rhodan himself. What he would've liked to know was, if the man would be equally ready to show loyalty to those serving him?

Schean almost shook his head again, chiding himself for getting so wrapped up in his own thoughts. And in the company of the Lord, too! He was forgetting his place...

The boy smiled to his father and nodded. "I'm sure you are right. Are they waiting for you already?"

"Yes." Lord Rhodan gave his son a one-armed hug and kissed the crown of his head. "I must be going now. I might still come later today, unless there is something too pressing. Thank you, minstrel... take good care of my boy."

"I will, my Lord," Schean assured, rising fluidly on his feet as soon as he saw the man making to stand up. "A very good day to you, my Lord."

The sturdy man, made to even sturdier by the padded shoulders and slightly puffed sleeves of his thick woolen coat, walked out of the room, leaving behind a happy boy and a thoughtful minstrel who did his best to forget all about the visit. Bengor didn't make it too easy for him, though; the boy was exhilarated by his father's display of trust, and kept coming back to what they had talked about. Listening to him, Schean couldn't help a chill that went through his body. If only Bengor were allowed to live, even long enough to grow into a man, what would he yet try to do? Definitely, sometimes the boy was far too clever – and had far too peculiar dreams – for a twelve-year-old. He had far too much time to just think and let his imagination run wild, instead of running wild himself and letting fresh air blow too adult thoughts out of his head.

Trying to distract the Ranea took the best part of Schean's day, and by the evening he was feeling more than a little dizzy. All the playing and staying mostly in one room had given him a mild but persistent headache, and finally he retired on the pretense of having to write down some notes. The boy, rather tired himself, agreed to bid him good night, and the minstrel almost ran down the stairs and straight to the castle walls.

As if he could write anything, in the tiny little closet of a room... but then, the Ranea didn't know what it was like, and besides, he wouldn't have exchanged that dark small room for the lightest, most convenient lodgings in a hall of servants. It meant something very precious to Schean: privacy. That was a commodity he valued, especially as it was in short supply in the crowded castle. All the servants slept several people to a room, as did the soldiers and mercenaries. Only the Lord and Lady and their children had their own rooms, and so did Schean. He didn't have to sleep in the Ranea's room, and that spoke volumes of how highly he was valued here. As small as the room was, it was his and his only, a place where he could do what he wanted, without having to be constantly mindful of bumping into others.

And this was another place he cherished: the walls. Schean stopped to breathe in the sharp wind that blew over the castle across the enormous expanse of River Czorhass. From the north, again, and biting cold, feeling even more bitter now that the winter was giving way to spring and the air was getting more humid once more. The minstrel walked along the narrow passage between the higher stone walls that rose above a man's head on both sides, dotted at regular intervals by arrow-slits. Deleon Castle was designed for safety and the walls were part of that design, allowing the defenders a place to move all around the castle, from one tower to the next, while being mostly protected from hails of arrows and stones from below. During peaceful times, such as this, they were also a favorite haunt of many people. This was where the Lady would go to enjoy fresh air, well above the smells and dirt of the courtyard, and where soldiers off-duty would bring maids for some fun in the more protected nooks and crannies.

Schean also liked it here, for much the same reasons. Sometimes he just craved the feeling of height, and the separation. The higher walls surrounding the main keep offered a particularly spectacular view over the entire bailey, the river running past in the north side, and the village in the south. The wind also felt even harder and more penetrating this high up, but that just reminded him of the abrupt cliffs near his home village by the sea, hundreds of leagues to the south. A little bit later in the spring he would even hear the cries of gulls over the water, and even now, if he closed his eyes, he could imagine that the hum of the river was in fact the sigh of wind over a salty expanse...

The minstrel opened his eyes, then blinked a few times. Was there someone moving on the walls surrounding the bailey? Yes, yes there was. That in itself was nothing too unusual, for sentinels kept patrolling the lower sections of the wall as well. But it was very irregular to see someone walking with a purposeful step along the one stretch of the wall nearest to the Ghost Tower. Usually the sentinels would walk roughly halfway to the Ghost Tower, then turn around and return the same way. Ostensibly this was because from that point they could well see that there was no one suspicious there, but Schean was convinced that they were simply afraid to go too close to the Ghost Tower. But this, whoever it was, was way closer to the tower than anyone he'd ever seen.

Schean pressed himself into one of the arrow-slits and peered through it, cheek almost touching the chilly stone. It was getting late, the sun was setting, and the passage was dark. And yet he was rather sure that the walking shape was a man, probably wearing a dark hooded cloak that made him into one bulky shadow. The shadow walked without hesitation, straight to the door that opened in the wall of the tower, and disappeared inside. The minstrel blinked again but could see nothing more.

A man, of that he was rather sure, a man tall enough to walk with a long, easy stride. He was pretty sure that it wasn't the Lord, though. Even from this distance Schean could tell that the figure, cloak or no cloak, hadn't been so broad. Who was that? And what did he do in the Ghost Tower? Schean peered once more through the arrow-slit towards the upper stories of the tower. Some light was shining through them, and he thought he could see movement inside.

Schean Lyennam took a deep breath and turned around, shivering. The air was indeed particularly freezing tonight.