Ravens, Owls and a nightingale

19. Lord & Lover

Lord Rhodan-Omeasch of Deleon stood for a moment outside the Wizards door, on the uppermost landing of the Ghost Tower, and clenched his fists. He was a strong, healthy man, a powerful and mighty man, but at the moment he felt very helpless. It was an extremely unpleasant feeling, one that he wasn't at all used to. It made his whole being twitch with anger and frustration, robbed him of sleep and almost even of appetite. He had never dealt well with frustration.

He nearly hoped that the days would pass soon, that the moment of battle were already at hand. Scarcely more than a day after he'd got Karos-Daleot's message, the first refugees had begun to trickled to Deleon Village: huge wagons and carts loaded with everything that the fields had yielded that year, followed by endless-looking trains of cattle and pigs. Filthy children herded animals onwards, youngsters and their parents helped the horses and oxen to haul their heavy loads forward. And the squeak of wheels and the slosh of hooves and feet had been drowned in the infernal cackling of alarmed geese and hen in their baskets, crates, and hastily built cages. Yes, it had been a good and productive year, and it showed.

The people were frightened, annoyed, tired and suspicious, and Deleon Castle had done the only possible thing: all the grain and other such things were brought in, carefully measured and counted, and stored in towers converted overnight into granaries and cellars. Several men had now been at work for a few days, armed with quills and lots of parchment, painstakingly writing down each family's possessions so that each would eventually get their own back. Inside the castle it would all be safe, even if the attackers somehow managed to push their way close enough to sack the village. And a few particularly ferocious-looking boys — complete with sharp sticks, a few even with little dogs — had been promised a good reward for every rat they killed. The ratter army was even now patrolling the vicinity of the granaries, sharp merciless eyes spelling swift death to their hairy enemies.

Lord Rhodan could only hope that it wouldn't become necessary to somehow squeeze all the people and their animals inside the bailey. But that was where Deleon's armies could have their say to matters — and everyone agreed that it would be a long way to go before such an emergency measure became necessary. Anyway, Lord Rhodan's sword hand was already getting pretty itchy as he looked at everything that was going on around him. He wanted this war over and done with; the people needed to get back to their villages, to take care of the autumn works on the fields, to gather fodder for those animals that would be left alive for the winter, to make the habitual fall repairs to their houses.

The sheer numbers of the enemy were formidable enough, but the Lord was nowhere near despair. Deleon had sufficient troops to pitch against them, and those troops were well trained and supplied, experienced and determined. And actually, one factor that was steadily working against Eregal and its allies was the very size of their own army. Reports from scouts and refugees alike stated that the countryside along the invasion route was pretty much stripped bare of anything that could feed even small bands of men, let alone hundreds. This gave the Lord grim satisfaction; it wouldn't take long before Eregal would be grappling with a horde of hungry, disgruntled soldiers. Unruliness was bound to arise, and then the time would be ripe to strike.

He glanced over his shoulder at the closed door, shook his head and began to descend the stairs. Inside the room, Karos-Daleot was ailing, clinging stubbornly to life. The Wizard didn't bother to hide his opinion that his survival so far was nothing short of a miracle, and Rhodan couldn't help agreeing. He frowned, heart clenching painfully at the thought of the pale face, sunken like a skull, that he'd seen and touched a moment ago. Karos had been conscious for once, and Rhodan had had the chance to tell him how invaluable he'd been, and how proud he himself was of the youngster. Even more gratifying, he'd called Karos 'his son', fully meaning it, and seen that ghost of a smile that Karos had managed in response.

Oh, he had been far too suspicious far too long, but luckily it wasn't yet too late to say he was sorry. If only he could do something for the boy! His fist hit the whitewashed stone wall in passing, as if it were in some way responsible for his frustration. He'd done his damnedest to get Karos into that condition, and now there was nothing he could do to undo it. He could only wait and he wasn't good at that, unless there was some definite goal in mind. Having to just wait and pray, no, that wasn't his thing, but that was all there was now, and this helplessness was eating him. If only he could get his hands on the enemy! At least that would be an outlet for all this guilt and remorse and affection roiling inside him.

The Lord raised his head to listen and tried to walk more quietly. No, he wasn't imagining the sound, nor was it the echo of his own steps. Someone else was climbing up the stairs, wearing shoes lighter than boots and yet treading more heavily than the lithe minstrels, who seemed to be frequenting the tower these days and were generally so stealthy in their step that they'd managed to startle the Lord more than once. He walked on, reached the next landing and there stopped to wait.

Cloth rustled quietly in rhythm with the steps, then he saw the head and the thick, dark brown braids that had been wound around the head like a gleaming double crown. He swallowed.

"Merania."

The chatelaine looked sharply up, ascended the last few steps and then just stood there, facing him. Her large hands released the heavy skirts that she'd gathered higher so as not to stumble on the hems, and fell placidly by her sides.

"My Lord."

There was no humility in her voice or demeanor, nor was he expecting any. She had never been particularly servile in her manner, which suited him just fine. She was efficient and clever and always knew what to do, and she also knew her own worth. A good chatelaine was a precious thing for any Lord, and when the old chatelaine who'd served his father for decades had taken a fall on the low cellar steps and hurt her hip — thank goodness she'd not broken her neck instead — she had suggested Merania as her successor in that demanding post. Young Lord Rhodan hadn't wasted time hesitating. He'd promptly made Merania his chatelaine, and if anyone was foolish enough to hint that she'd got to wear the huge ring of keys in her belt merely because she'd shared the Lord's bed for quite some time, those malevolent idiots had soon discovered that they'd been profoundly mistaken.

Shared his bed... Rhodan swallowed again. Yes, that she had done, though it had taken him quite some time and more than a little ardent effort to persuade her. But it had all been worth it — by every god he knew, it had been worth it. He could remember her so well, the way she'd been then, and now that he looked at her, his throat went dry in exactly the same way.

Was this really the first time in all these twenty or so years that they were absolutely alone? He racked his brain hard and was almost ready to swear it was so. They had spoken to each other countless times, he the Lord, she the chatelaine, each always in that capacity. Never alone though, and he suddenly wondered if that hadn't been intentional, at least on his part. As if they'd avoided a solitary encounter. Perhaps they had?

He looked at her now as if for the first time and knew all of a sudden that even though he hadn't really thought about her in that way for years, it wasn't because he wouldn't have wanted to. He'd purposely avoided those thoughts, for fear of making both of their lives more difficult. She was the chatelaine, far too crucial a person to be in any way slighted. Although — didn't many Lords and masters sleep with their chatelaines? Well yes, but Merania... to her it would've been a slight. At least he thought so. And thus he'd taken a maid in his bed when he'd felt like it, but never her. Never Merania.

Now they were alone, on a landing in the Ghost Tower, and he looked at her closely. They were both past forty now. Where had the time flown? He took in the little laughter lines around her dark eyes, the slight sagging of full breasts underneath a white shirt, the hands that had baked innumerable loaves of bread and plucked countless geese and showed it. Her hips were wide under the skirts. Lord Rhodan swallowed once again, feeling the old desire stir powerfully inside him. Had it ever really gone away? He thought how he'd always enjoyed her company, more or less consciously compared every other woman to her and invariably found them somehow lacking. Because none of them was Merania.

"My Lord?"

Rhodan blinked and realized that he had no idea how long he'd been just staring at the tall woman in front of him.

"Will you please let me pass? I haven't much time, and I want to go and see Karos."

"He's sleeping." Rhodan's voice was hoarse, he heard it himself. "He was conscious for a moment, and the Wizard managed to feed him a little."

"Oh." Merania looked at the same time sorry and relieved. "I haven't seen him conscious yet."

Her voice was wistful. Rhodan wanted to take her hand and squeeze it for comfort but didn't dare.

"He'll be all right," he said instead, forcefully.

"Rhamirr is doing all he can," she conceded. "He's just so weak..."

"Karos will live," Rhodan repeated. "We won't let our son die."

Merania's eyebrows arched up and she looked at him in surprise. "Our son?"

"Yes. I wish I'd known of him earlier, though." His desire was whispering to him now, urging him to find the right words and — even more imperative — to say them. He'd known the words back then, but been too blinded by ambition to ever speak them aloud. "I wouldn't have been so stupidly suspicious if I'd known. I wouldn't have nearly got him killed. I — but enough of that. When he gets better —"

"I deemed it better that you didn't know," she interjected calmly. "It would only have made things so complicated, especially as the Lady was already here when he was born. And I'm not at all sure that you'd have been very kindly disposed towards a bastard anyway, no matter what you might say now."

Now it was Rhodan's turn to raise his eyebrows. Merania had never been afraid to talk back to him. As the chatelaine she'd been careful to always pick her words carefully, never failing to make her arguments sound respectful enough. But he'd never either wanted or received blind obedience from her. She knew what she was talking about and Rhodan valued her opinion. Nevertheless, in his frustration he was only too happy to vent some, and here was an opportunity.

"How would you know that?" he demanded.

"Karos is a bastard," Merania stated. "And with a high-born Lady as your wife, you wouldn't have been too happy if you had known about him. She certainly didn't like all those others you sired."

Rhodan pressed his lips together and glowered. It hadn't been an accusation, but it was too true that he'd been inexcusably ignorant of the goings-on in his own castle. After his wife had taken her own life, it had all trickled to him at last. Dead kids, killed by some misfortune or other, dead women even. Dead because of him. And he hadn't known, hadn't paid enough attention to notice a pattern. He didn't like to be reminded of that, because it made him feel the dull, sullen bite of remorse. His fault.

But Karos, his firstborn, had been kept hidden by the ingenuous chatelaine and Wizard, and had again escaped death by the skin of his teeth. Now Karos was there, upstairs, battling fever and infection, and that was his fault too. His jaw clenched.

"That doesn't matter any more," Rhodan ground out. "When he's well again, I'll make him my son."

"What about the Ranea?" Merania challenged, voice ringing with alarm. "You can't do that, not to him! And not to Karos either, he'd —"

"Bengor will always be my heir," he interrupted. "There's no question of that. But Karos will be my acknowledged son as well."

Merania looked relieved but dubious. "Are you quite sure that the Ranea won't mind?"

"He won't." That was one thing Rhodan was confident about. "And I'll talk to him first. But he'll agree with me."

"As you say, my Lord," she sighed. "You will of course do as you want."

Lord Rhodan felt a twinge somewhere under his heart.

"No," he said in a low voice, "I don't always do what I want."

Merania cocked her head, waiting silently.

"Mostly I do what I must. What the situation requires. Or just what I think is expected of me." He breathed hard. "If I had done what I really wanted, years ago, I'd have married you."

"Then you wouldn't have Bengor or your daughters," she pointed out. "And where would we be now without Lady Berissa and her riches? You'd have a huge castle in your hands and too little wealth to keep it up properly. Your father, may he rest in peace, taught you that more land is a good thing, but you'd be unable to look after all your holdings if it hadn't been for your marriage. You know that as well as I do."

He knew it only too well, and the mere thought of his legitimate son and daughters made his insides ache with fierce protectiveness. He'd been too much absorbed in the business of being a Lord, but now he knew better. That they'd never been born? Unthinkable. Bengor and Benella and Bailenn were his children and he loved them.

But Karos was his son too... and the pain that welled up when Rhodan had looked at the young man, moments ago, had been suspiciously like the pain he'd felt when visiting Bengor during the boy's long illness. Rhodan was ready to accept Karos among the people he truly cared for, in fact he'd already done that, or had it been Karos who'd found his way in? Whatever.

"You are right," Rhodan said after a deep breath. "Things would be very difficult indeed. But — is it too late now?"

His heart was thudding almost painfully, so hard and loud.

"Too late — for what?" Merania frowned.

"For you and me." Rhodan's throat felt reluctant to let air through, but nevertheless he tried to get the all-important words out. "My accursed wife is dead. I'm not a teetering old fool yet. You never married. Tell me you don't have anyone now, Merania. I want you to be my wife at last."

Her dark eyes went rounder and rounder as he spoke, and finally she shook her head. "You can't be serious."

"But I am," Rhodan said and stepped closer. "Perfectly serious. Marry me."

"Be reasonable, Rhodan!" Her voice rose. "Whatever you want, your children certainly wouldn't approve of it!"

"I'm their father, and they don't dictate what I do," he snapped. "If I want to marry you, they'll have no choice but to accept it!"

"What about me?" Merania inquired challengingly, hands on hips, cheeks red with agitation. Desire washed over Lord Rhodan in a wave that made him gasp. "Don't try to tell me that I have no choice either, Rhodan-Omeasch, or I swear I'll make you think again!"

The Lord almost grinned but smothered it quickly. How sorely he had missed this closeness...

"Of course you have," he said indignantly. "Very much in fact. If you say no, then... then I'll have to find a way to make you say yes eventually."

Merania shook her head in exasperation. "Why would you do that? Aren't there enough pretty maids here to keep you warm at night? I'm not much younger than you are, just in case you've forgotten to open your eyes this morning!"

"You are you, Merania." His voice threatened to falter again for the sheer lust coursing through him. "I've always wanted you, and I still do."

"What if I have someone else?"

There was no teasing in her voice.

"Why haven't you married then?" Rhodan asked through clenched teeth. "I can't imagine any reason — if a man is so uncertain of his manliness that he wouldn't want to be known as 'Lischell's man', I can't imagine that being 'Lischell's lover' would make him any happier."

"You're right, of course," Merania admitted easily. "But I've been quite busy enough taking care of your castle. No time for men, I'm afraid."

Rhodan couldn't help the relieved sigh that escaped him.

"But to be the Lady... I'm not sure I'm cut for that," she continued.

"Oh yes you are," Rhodan said with emphasis. "Be my wife. Please."

When had that word last passed through his lips? He couldn't remember. Then something occurred to him with crushing clarity, it slipped out before he could stop himself and regretted it immediately. "I'm not a young man any more."

Merania's wide, full mouth twitched, its corners drew up in a smile and that almost-dimple appeared on the right cheek. He saw it and swallowed. It was still there.

"No, but you've kept pretty well. Especially considering how you spend so much of your time."

Rhodan took another step closer and slowly raised a hand. It was dark and rough, but its knuckles brushed almost shyly on Merania's chin.

"Please," he whispered again, breathless.

"I promise to think about it," she said. "I'm afraid you'll have to make do with that right now, Rhodan-Omeasch. There's loads of work ahead, with yet another war nearly upon us."

Rhodan turned serious. "We'll beat them."

"I believe you will, but it won't be just a sleight of hand." Merania tugged him by the beard. "Now let go of me. Always the same thing with you... I must get going, and before that I want to see my son, even if he is asleep."

"Our son."

"Cannot deny that, my Lord."

"I'll show you 'my Lord'!" Rhodan kissed her ferociously, then growled and rubbed his bitten lip.

"You're indeed far too used to the maids who just squeal with delight if you as much as tickle them," Merania said sternly, but her eyes were glittering. Rhodan sighed.

"Please," he said once more and hugged her close. He was much gratified to observe that no teeth were involved this time.

At the bottom of the Ghost Tower, the heavy door closed with nothing louder than a slow sigh. Outside it, both Mioll and Schean rolled their eyes and let out a deep breath that they'd been holding inside for what felt like minutes — though surely that had to be just their imagination. They were rather sure that no one could tiptoe down dozens of stairs without breathing even once.

"That was close," Schean said feebly.

"Real close," Mioll agreed. The two people had been so absorbed in their discussion, or perhaps in the romantic setting of the eerie Ghost Tower, that they obviously hadn't heard the approaching footsteps, while the two minstrels had merely thought that they'd be meeting someone coming down from the Wizard's room. In the echoing spiral staircase they hadn't realized their mistake until the very last moment, and had promptly taken to their heels as swiftly and silently as they only could. But boy, the way down had been far longer than either of them remembered...

They stared for a moment at each other, eyes round, not saying anything. At first they hadn't been able to make out the exact words or even who'd been speaking, and then they had frozen into statues. And heard quite a lot.

Schean saw something in the corner of his eye, hissed a soft curse under his breath and dashed away. "Uh, Bengor it's — no, no, nothing to do with Karos — err, I just don't think that you ought to go there right now..."