Chapter 72

Gerald gazed out of the study's window and watched the streets. They were less brimming with life than usual. "I assume the fields are livelier than the streets?"

"Of course, my lord," Arthur said from behind. "The sowing has begun in all the hamlets and villages. The scorched forest's land is also being sowed."

Gerald nodded. A cold breeze came from without, and the winter's chill began to permeate his flesh. He hated that chill. He knew it too well. It wasn't too cold, but it always penetrated one to the core, touching their bones and keeping them away from a good night's sleep. This was its beginning. At the height of winter, the walls would have absorbed it and there would be no escape from it, no matter how many hearth fires were lit.

"A new year begins," Gerald said, turning around and smiling at Arthur. He'd arrived at the Viscounty six months ago, in the middle of the year. Time had passed faster than he'd imagined it could.

"Indeed," Arthur said. "Hopefully a prosperous year awaits the Viscounty, my lord."

"Hopes," Gerald snorted and shook his head.

Arthur lost his words for a moment and looked taken aback by the instant ridicule.

"It's not you, Arthur." Gerald sighed. "Hoping is something I can never feel. It's simply gone. I can't remember it anymore. I lost it when I was there." He pointed behind him, towards the window, towards the north where his worst enemy lay.

Arthur smiled apologetically and nodded.

"Anything else, then?" Gerald said.

Arthur stood there, obviously hesitant, as if he wasn't certain of what he wanted.

Gerald narrowed his eyes. "Trouble?"

"No, no, my lord," Arthur chuckled nervously. "It's . . . Well, my lord. I have always wondered where you get your calm."

"What calm?" Gerald raised a brow. "Is there something to not be calm about?"

"You still misunderstand me, my lord," Arthur shook his head. "There are no important matters to discuss. Only, my curiosity has gotten the better of me."

"How so?"

Arthur cleared his throat. "When you first arrived, my lord, I expected less from you. Bandits had infested the territory for years. Grina was deeply rooted in Ard. I believed that taking a seat on a throne of needles would have been more welcoming than taking the lord's seat here."

"Yes, yes," Gerald nodded. "I had just returned home, though it wasn't a very welcoming home. But where do you think I was coming from, Arthur?" Gerald stood up. He walked to the window again. This time not watching the streets of Ard, but looking farther, towards the north. "There, everyone was hostile too. Only, I didn't have any power then. Pieces were always moved against and around me, but I never had the chance to move a piece of my own. I spent many nights just thinking about what I would do if I only I could, but I never had an opportunity to act." Gerald turned around and looked at his minister. "Here, however, I can. When I came here, I only had to move my pieces right to get what I wanted. There was nothing restraining me anymore. You were worried about the enemies that awaited me here, without and within, right?" Gerald turned to gaze at the north again, his eyes only seeing the blue sky, slightly cloudy. "Well, Arthur, when you grow in the forest, you don't fear the beasts."

His minister was silent for a few moments, then he heard him clear his dry throat again. "I have always imagined your absence from your father's court and your presence at the Duke's was only what the Duke saw it to be, a game of power. It seems it has been difficult living in the Duke's court, my lord. More difficult than I imagined."

"Yes," Gerald said, his eyes searching deeper in the sky. "Now only my sister is there. Alone."

..

.

During the night, Gerald entered his father's bedchambers, only for the second time since his arrival. The first time, he'd only given a glance to its insides.

He pushed the door, hearing its faint creak fill the silence of the hallway. He walked inside, carrying his lamp and staring at the large bed in front of him. He stepped closer and touched the old wood. It was blanketed in dust. No maids were allowed in here, and the chamber had likely been collecting dust for months. He smelled the air, a mix of mold and dust. He'd come here with no clear reason. He refused to believe that he was having peace with his passed father. He simply thought of him sometimes. This time there had been an urge, just like the one that had gotten him to visit his father's grave.

He walked around the bed. Some half-melted candles were beside the bed, solid and rough like rocks due to being neglected. He slowly sat on the side of the bed, inviting a small assault of dust into the air. He coughed for a moment then closed his eyes, smelling the air again. Perhaps he could get a whiff of what his father had smelled like. But there was no such whiff.

He opened his eyes again, the light of the lamp slightly bothersome to him. His eyes avoided it and landed on the candles again, behind them and mostly hidden was a book. It was the same dark color of the wood. No wonder he hadn't noticed it before. He stood up and picked it up.

He didn't have the patience to begin it from the first page or seek a title. He just opened it from the middle. And the first words told him who it belonged to.

It wasn't a book. It was a journal; his brother's. The words were scribbled with an angry hand, obvious from the writing and the words. With the weak light of his lamp, he read it carefully.

'Father will never understand me. I told him that we can't be the Duke's slaves for the rest of our lives, but he wouldn't listen. He still fights for them, even though everyone knows the Duke would never send either of them back to us. They would forever be at his court.'

Gerald read the words written by his late brother and chuckled weakly. They were indeed never meant to return home. If his father and brother hadn't died, he would have likely stayed at the Duke's court for his whole life.

However, the words that he read next didn't make him laugh. They made his shoulders droop.

'For the Viscounty to thrive, we must abandon them. But father never listens. He can't understand that even Royal dynasties have sacrificed their members for the good of their rule. If we can't have them back, then let the Duke do with them what he may. We must ignore his threats and thrive, away from his influence. Fighting for the return of my siblings is foolish. But father'

Gerald stopped there, seeing some angrier scribbling that was impossible to understand. He gulped down, hating to read what came after that.

'Now I can only expect to inherit a land infested with brigands, and a drying treasury waiting for its death. I will be the one to live with what comes from this folly. I must persuade him. I must change his mind. He can't forever be thinking of them. They were lost when they left this castle. He is only holding on to false hope.'

Gerald closed the journal, as if restraining his eyes from seeing more. He could only imagine that the journal was full of words like these. He stood up, holding the lamp in one hand and the journal in the other. He looked at the leather coating of the latter and wore a bitter smile. "I always wanted to meet you, brother. But it seems you didn't share my wish." A memory struck him, and he tasted that old familiar feeling. Hope. It was perhaps the last time he'd felt it, when the Duke's sons had outnumbered him in the training grounds. He'd hoped his brother would be there, by his side. He'd hoped he could have a brother always nearby, like the Duke's sons had each other.

His eyes wouldn't leave the journal, and he couldn't hold his smile anymore. He could only imagine his countenance now. Pitiful. And it would be worse tomorrow, when he reads this whole journal. He would have to. It was very likely that the journal contained things he needed to know. He would read it, and he would have to go through the scraping words his brother had written.

"When you grow in the forest . . . " he gazed at the journal and forced the corner of his mouth into a weak smile.