The door closed behind the dais at the end of the hall with an ominous thud and then Jormand and his mother were alone. They sat on the dining bench quietly, Jormand unwilling to start his tale, knowing that it would only upset her and she waited expectantly.

He was trying to find some way to tell her everything as gently as possible, but there was no easy way to tell someone that their husband was dead and one of their sons was badly wounded. That the strength of their house and family had come crashing down while he fled from the catastrophe. She had already been so upset to learn that Ketrim was injured, Jormand couldn’t bring himself to add more grief to that, especially so soon after coming home. But he needed to tell her sometime. He wouldn’t be able to keep any of it secret, not when there were at least a dozen other people in Derranhall who knew now, what with Rianne and her attendants as well as his travelling companions.

His mother’s eyes, like hammers, drove nails into his skull, pushing deeper. It made him want to cringe away, to stand up and leave, but it also kept him held fast. Ingrid Derran possessed a power far greater than that granted to her by her title. She could keep a rabid bear in line with a hard look and a sharp word. It took even less for Jormand.

“I um… I don’t know where to start,” He stammered, fumbling to get what he was going to say straight in his mind. He’d leave out the worst parts of course, but it would be hard to downplay Ketrim’s injury, and then there was his father… There was no way to sugarcoat murder.

“At the beginning, I should think.” Ingrid said matter-of-factly. She leveled a flat stare at him that said she knew everything he was thinking, though she had no way to. She had always been able to see through him. A mothers’s intuition, she called it. It had always seemed more sinister to him.

After recovering from the brief slip when she’d heard the news of Ketrim, she was back to being all grace and poise. Even sitting on a plain bench, she looked like a queen surveying her realm. Surveying and not liking what she saw. Her face was perfectly neutral, but Jormand knew how to interpret those tiny wrinkles around the eyes, the slightest twitch of her lips. For her, that was an outburst on par with shouting.

Jormand nodded. He did not have the time to think of another option. He had never been the one for words, that was Galier’s specialty. Jormand always needed time to prepare, to plan what he was going to say, and he simply did not have it.

His hands, held flat against his thighs, were beginning to sweat and as he tried to speak, his throat went dry as bone. He swallowed hard.

“Father is dead.” He said bluntly. It was the best he could manage. His mind was moving as slow as a river of mud, clogged by the befuddling cocktail of feelings that came to bear when he thought of his father. His mother hardly even reacted. Her nose twitched slightly and her eyes might have narrowed the slightest amount, things that would be invisible to anyone else, but even Jormand did not know how to interpret it.

“I see.” She said. Her voice was devoid of passion or anything else for that matter, but her prying gaze did not falter, so Jormand kept going. Now that he had begun, it was easier not to stop.

“He was murdered. By some strange people. They came after us again on the road. We left just after it happened, with Lana’s help. We left Galier in charge, it seemed like the best thing to do.” The truth was that he had had little input in that decision. As much as it irked him to admit, he hadn’t had the presence of mind necessary to even think about it at the time. Now, he was beginning to think it wasn’t such a good idea after all. Galier was indisputably talented but he was inexperienced. Martim had been talented too. It hadn’t served him very well in the end.

Jormand kept on with his story, knowing that if he stopped, he might not be able to start again, but also unable to even slow himself down.

Telling the tale made him realize just how short of a time it had really been. Since leaving Maerin, they’d been constantly moving and he had been kept busy. He hadn’t had much time to think, and since the attack on the caravan, things had only moved faster. It was hard to separate the days at the end, it all blurred into one mass of exhaustion and pain.

Ingrid hardly reacted at all, until he mentioned that the people who attacked the caravan were a mixture of imperial soldiers and others, those that carried those strange iron swords. They were the same ones who had killed Matim, Jormand was sure of it. They were hard to mistake. She stopped him to be certain, but then let him carry on. She winced ever so slightly when he told her about Ketrim and his wound, and then again when he told her about Elyas’ death. Both times she reacted more than hearing of her own husband’s demise.

Jormand barreled through his story until he came to the present, with the voyage from Blistimere to Derranhall. Then he stopped, feeling drained and exhausted, as if he had swam the entire distance instead of taking a ship.

His mother was quiet for a moment. She looked to be mulling over what he’d just told her, Jormand thought, as well she might. The things Jormand said meant no small amount of upheaval for house Derran. But at least he had done what he needed to do. Now he could cast off on his own ship and leave all of it on the shore.

“Do you have his ring?” She asked.

What? His ring? Jormand fumbled with his belt pouch where he kept the thing. He pulled it out and proffered it to his mother, the bent, misshapen bit of silver didn’t belong in her hand though. Once it might have been fine enough for her, before Jormand had crushed it into the twisted thing it was now. He doubted if it could even fit on a finger now, it was hardly round. Still, she plucked it from his hand and held it up to her eye to examine it. Bits of dirt and grass fell from between the bent prongs, dislodged to fall back into his palm. He hadn’t looked at it since that day on the hill when they’d begun the final part of their journey. He hadn’t had the time. The attack and then their desperate flight to Blistimere had kept him busy. It felt much longer than days ago, though.

He’d had no idea what was to come back then. It shamed him to think just how oblivious he had been. Of course they were going to be attacked. He should have known it would take more than hiding in some wagons to fool them. Except it should have worked, it really should have. Who suspected a purefolk caravan to be hiding fleeing aristocrats? He must have missed something that tipped the imperial soldiers off. That was the only explanation.

“It's seen better days.” Ingrid said, dropping the twisted ring back into Jormand’s hand. He blinked, surprised that she gave it back. Tradition said that she should keep it. It was the last vestige of her dead husband. The body was already rotting back in Maerin, but a soulstone wouldn’t degrade. It kept the soul of the dead alive, so it was said. Free to move on to the afterlife instead of caught in a decaying corpse. She wasn’t required to keep it, but Jormand didn’t know of anyone who chose not to.

She bent his fingers closed around the ring, cutting off the stone’s faint glow.

“Keep it,” She said in a strangely intense voice, “I don’t want it, but he was your father.” Jormand nodded. He would keep it, although he did not really want to either. Looking at the stone made him feel strange. Like his father was still there, watching and judging him. Martim had never ceased to judge him in life, why shouldn’t he in death? But Jormand would keep it, if it was what his mother wanted. It was the least that he could do.

“Why me?” He asked. His voice was strained, more so than he had hoped it would be. Thinking about Martim was a dangerous road to travel. Sometimes it left him a shivering heap, entirely helpless, and others it affected him not at all, but the former was more common. Whether he liked it or not, Martim loomed large in his past. He had been a shaping force on the Jormand Derran of today.

Ingrid shrugged, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. She twisted a ring on her left hand. It was her own soulstone. Unlike the rest of her family, she’d had hers mounted in a simple silver band, foregoing the house heraldry. She also hadn’t exchanged hers with her husband after their marriage, as was customary. Tradition said that it was a way to keep your spouse close even when they ranged far away. Every northern couple Jormand knew followed that custom, except for his parents.

“Maybe one of your brothers will want it, or your sister. She’s here, you know.” She arched an eyebrow at him. She knew better than most that Jormand and his sister, Vilde, were not on the best of terms.

Jormand tensed at the mention of her. He stowed the ring back in his belt pouch and shook his head. He would keep it. Better him than Vilde. He might not want it, but he wasn’t going to relinquish it to her either. Better to keep it safe.

“I’ll keep it.” He said. He’d put it somewhere else, in a box somewhere maybe, where he could forget about it.

A quiet knock sounded on the grand doors at the front of the hall and drew Jormand’s attention away. Then it came again, louder this time. Ingrid stood and quickly walked back to her seat on the dais. She gave Jormand a look that said they were not done with their discussion before swishing back to the end of the hall, trailing a crimson stream of silk. Jormand walked the other way, to open the door for whoever had been knocking.

Outside he found that sailor fellow who had followed their group from the docks. He supposed the man was probably the captain of the other ship that had set out with them. He thought he remembered Rianne saying something about him having something to deliver to Derranhall, but he wasn’t sure what.

Behind him was a younger man who looked wide-eyed into the room around his captain and Jormand. Both had the coloring of the new blood, but southerners to be sure. The captain hastened to bow when he saw Jormand and the younger sailor followed suit a moment later. His bow was a good deal less practiced.

“Pardon the interruption m’lord,” The captain said. His voice was gruff and sturdy, like he’d spend his life shouting into the wind. As a sailor he very well might have, too. “I have a delivery to make to the seat of house Derran.”

He pulled a folded piece of parchment from inside his jacket and waved it before Jormand. It was bent from travel, but the seal wasn’t broken.

“From the lord Broderic Teloway, m’lord,” He said, proffering the letter to Jormand with an unpolished flourish.

Jormand took it, examining the parchment further with a closer eye. It did look unopened, and well kept for being shipped during a storm. He waved the two men into the room.

Out in the hall he heard footsteps, he turned to close the doors, but before he could, he caught a glimpse of Rianne marching down the hall, an imperious look on her face. She would not be pleased if he closed the door in her face. These were her men after all.

He sighed to himself, but kept the door open wide enough for her to slip through, then closed it fully when she was inside, glaring at him for making her turn sideways to get through the door. He just shrugged and gestured for the three of them to follow him as he made his way to the end of the hall where Ingrid sat in her chair regally, waiting patiently for her visitors to approach.

“This man says he has a letter for the seat,” Jormand said, mounting the dais and taking a position next to his mother’s chair while the three people following him bowed at its base, Rianne far less deeply than the other two.

Ingrid raised an eyebrow like Jormand had done something wrong. Maybe he had, he was never one for proper procedure and it had been some time since he’d had to do anything like this. It didn’t bother him.

She accepted the letter and turned it over slowly for a long moment.

“The seal’s been replaced.” She said flatly, then looked up at the captain who cringed and dropped his eyes to the floor. The other sailor looked like he was ready to faint, the blood all draining from his face.

Jormand started, he hadn’t noticed anything wrong with the seal. He tried to get a look at it again, but his mother was already unfolding the letter. How had he missed that?

It was Rianne who spoke up, in a haughty voice. She returned Ingrid’s look, though the effect was lessened by her travelling clothes.

“I opened it, under the authority of my father. It is the reason why I am here. If you would read it, my lady, I am sure you will understand.”

Ingrid nodded and busied herself with reading the letter. A few moments later, she handed it to Jormand, then steepled her fingers and looked pensively down at the three people at the base of her dais. They all waited in silence for Jormand to read it.

To my dear lady Ingrid of Derranhall,

I would like to offer my condolences on the untimely death of your husband and I do hope that your sons have returned safely by the time this message arrives…

The message went on in a tiny script, miraculously unblemished after travelling by sea, but much of the contents were meaningless to Jormand. It went in circles, constantly hinting at something. It sounded like Jormand’s father had been raising an army for the sender! But that couldn’t be the case, could it? The letter continued on, evading Jormand’s attempts to understand it exactly, but that part was clear.

Then he read the signature at the bottom of the parchment and almost dropped the letter. Crammed into the corner of the page, but still managing to be flowing and ostentatious was a name written in a hand that Jormand knew well. Sincerely yours, Lord Galier Derran, it read, followed in green wax by the house seal he’d inherited from Martim.

He turned to his mother, all too aware of the incredulous look plastered on his face. He couldn’t help it. What had Galier gotten himself involved in? Jormand had been worried before, the world of politics was not kind to new players, but this was far more than he’d thought possible. What reason could Galier have for wanting an army? The Monarch would not allow it, especially not from a new blood family. What was Galier up to? And who had planned this all. If Martim had started it…

Ingrid noticed that Jormand had finished the letter and plucked it from his hand, and set it on her lap beneath folded hands.

“I see now why you decided to come here yourself,” She said, directed towards Rianne. “This letter seems to imply that your father has sworn fealty to house Derran.”

“That is one conclusion that could be drawn from it, yes.” Rianne said through gritted teeth. She was bristling like a cornered badger. It was clearly not her interpretation.

“I see no other reason why your man would have delivered it.” Ingrid replied with a meaningful look to the ship’s captain. He bowed again for good measure and his sailor did as well a moment later.

“What is your name, captain?” She asked as he came up from his bow. He stared at her wide-eyed for a moment before responding.

“Henriot, m’lady, and this is Estien.” He said shakily, pointing a finger to the younger sailor. Ingrid nodded politely to them both.

“Did your liege lord say anything about this? About swearing fealty?”

The captain shook his head quickly, but then he stopped and his eyebrows inched together in a thoughtful frown.

“Now that you mention it, he did say to look for the two young lords on our way…” He cringed at saying it, no doubt remembering that he failed to do just that in Tauly. Nobody seemed concerned with that though, least of all Jormand. He was far too worried with how murky this situation was getting in such short order. He had not planned to stay in Derranhall long, but this was becoming more and more complicated, especially now that he knew Galier was involved…

“That would seem to indicate the same thing as the letter.” Ingrid said, directed to Rianne again. The fiery haired lady was forced to nod in a stiff, jerking motion.

“Yes, I suppose that it would. But I do not intend to swear to a leaderless house. If my father did, if, he had more information than I do.”

“Indeed he did.” Ingrid replied, a knowing smile beginning to tug at her lips. “Have your men wait outside. We have much to discuss, I think.”

Rianne’s obstinate frown was replaced by a puzzled expression, but she did as she was told and waved Estien and Henriot out of the room. They complied quickly, walking quickly towards the door, no doubt grateful not to have to stay.

Once it closed, all attention was back on Ingrid.

“What do you know of this?” Rianne demanded, heat rising in her voice again now.

“Better if we sit down.” Ingrid said, gesturing to the other chairs on the dais. Jormand and Rianne each took one, moving them so they sat in a rough triangle.

“Before I say anything, I must ask that the both of you swear not to speak a word of what I say outside of this room.”

Jormand nodded, then Rianne did after a moment’s consideration.

“Good. Now that we have that out of the way, let me explain.” Ingrid took a deep breath. Jormand knew that her mind was spinning furiously, she always did that when she was thinking. “Before his death, my husband as well as a handful of others were involved in a plot to overthrow the Monarch.” She let that hang in the air as her audience came to terms with the magnitude of what she’d just said.

Rianne’s mouth hung open and Jormand’s jaw worked soundlessly as he struggled to form words, he just couldn’t make sense of what he’d heard. His entire time in Maerin, from the very first day, Martim had always told him to follow the code of conduct expected of a young lord. Among many other things, that meant almost worshipping the Monarch. He ruled the city with as much direct influence as he could muster, and he expected exacting loyalty, although he had begun to grow more reclusive as time went on.

Why would Martim have kept Jormand in the dark? He’d been plotting treason while lecturing Jormand about proper noble etiquette! No wonder he had made preparations for his death. No wonder he’d been so keen to leave the city. He must have known that his life was in danger. But why hadn’t he said anything?

“We have been gathering landsmen and sailors from across our territory, as well as some from further abroad. As it stands, we have around two thousand fighting men and women, mostly housed here in Derranhall.”

I’m sure that both of you noticed the ships in the harbor. We have more in ports nearby, enough to mobilize a sizable navy and the sailors to crew them. However, we’ve had very few new arrivals for some time now. I worry that the offer of payment is not enough to convince many more and we certainly don’t have enough for the task at hand… Not to mention that without Martim, there is no one to lead them.”

Rianne waited until Ingrid had finished speaking, but it was clear that her blood was boiling already.

“You expect me to help you with this?” She shouted, before realizing what she’d done and cowering back into her chair. “Forgive my outburst, but this is treason! And obvious at that! Attacking Maerin would mean war!”

Ingrid remained unfazed but accepted the apology with a gracious nod. “I understand your concerns, but I think matters may not be as dire as you think. lord Izidor, The Monarch, has been steadily losing favor in Maerin for years now. It is only by sheer force of numbers that he has not yet been deposed. As I am sure you are aware, lady Teloway, the imperial presence on this side of the Phoenaxian sea has been decreasing as of late. We believe this is because of trouble across the sea. We’ve heard rumors of rebellions, or maybe even war. Regardless of the cause, now is the time to strike.”

Rianne shook her head, obviously still not convinced. Jormand for his part could hardly think straight, much less speak. What his mother was saying was entirely preposterous! Overthrowing the Monarch? Expelling the empire?

“This is insane.” Rianne proclaimed, standing from her chair. She stomped off without a bow or so much as a gracious word. Ingrid let her go without a word. She stalked out through the main doors and the hall echoed with the boom of them closing.

Jormand stood too and made for the door. He needed time to think about all of this and what it meant. He’d only planned to stop off in Derranhall for a few days maybe, then set out with a good ship and crew. What was he supposed to do now? He wished that he’d never heard any of this.

Before Jormand could even make it to the bottom of the dais, Ingrid stopped him as she too stood from her chair. As always, it was a spectacle, with ripples of flowing silk and the chiming of silver on silver.

“Jormand wait,” She called. Commanded, rather. She was always commanding, he couldn’t remember a time when she didn’t. “We still have things to discuss, please, sit back down.”

He turned and for a moment he thought about turning and leaving anyway. He just needed some time to get things straight in his head, he couldn’t be expected to just take this all in stride! But he couldn’t disobey his mother either. He owed her that much, after having been gone for so long. So he sullenly took a seat once more. She smiled at him and sat back down as well, rearranging her skirts to perfection without even looking at them.

“You know I have no interest in leading this family, Jormand,” She began and he already knew what it was she wanted to talk about. With their father dead, Jormand and his siblings would have to decide amongst themselves who the next house seat would be. He had hoped that his mother would accept the title without argument, but he’d always known that was unlikely. She’d never expressed much interest in ruling, although she did a good job of it, judging by the state of the town and hall. Derranhall had always been something of a backwater as far as port cities went. Its power came from the sheer number of ships and sailors it could muster, no matter the season. But on his climb from the docks to the hall, Jormand had seen all sorts of things he had never seen there before. Merchants and shops, inns and public baths, all new based on the pale timber and unweathered stone. Ingrid had made many changes in her husband’s absence, most of them good from what Jormand could tell. “Now that you and Ketrim are home, Vilde won't want to wait any longer.”

Jormand nodded. He hadn’t expected his sister to be there when he arrived. She spent much of her time leading house Derran’s landsmen in border disputes or her own crew in raids. If she was waiting around Derranhall, it meant that she wanted the position for herself. Jormand was inclined not to let that happen. More than petty rivalry between siblings, he also knew that her rule could be disastrous for their family. She was dangerously hot headed, beyond anything Jormand had ever seen among nobility. She could match the most vicious of warriors easily. It was an attribute that served her well normally when she spent her time crashing through the pitiful defenses of small villages and towns, but it would not bode well for ruling.

If circumstances were different, Ketrim would be the obvious choice to lead the house. He’d been groomed for the task by Martim for his entire life and he certainly knew enough of command, even if he let it get to his head sometimes. If only he weren’t injured. Jormand had a small amount of hope that he would recover, but at a time like this, the house needed strong leadership from a hale and healthy individual. That left Suhren, Jormand’s youngest brother. The boy was no more than thirteen years old, old enough to take the title, if he could manage it, but far too young to be trusted with that power. He might be preferable to Vilde, if only because he would listen to the advice given to him. Still, not an option that Jormand felt good about.

He certainly didn’t want the title himself, even if he had more of a claim to it than Vilde by virtue of his age. He’d spent time with Martim in Maerin as well as on campaign and on raids. He knew more of what it would take to lead the family, but beyond experience, he had very little. Jormand was no leader, and he certainly wasn’t very well liked among the family’s vassals and supporters.

“I don’t want to wait any longer, Jormand,” Ingrid said, interrupting his thoughts with a gentle voice. Gentle, but firm. “We’ll decide tonight and let it be done.” And that was that. What Ingrid said was gospel in Derranhall.

Jormand left the hall, but not before being wrapped in another hug. Ingrid sent him on his way with a motherly smile, out of place with all of her finery, and a promise that his rooms in the east tower were just as he’d left them. Maybe a little cleaner.

After that, Jormand just wandered through the hall. He knew the building so well that he found himself in familiar rooms on more than one occasion, carried there by feet that retraced his old paths without thinking. First it was the armory.

Of all the tasks that his father assigned to him in his youth, looking after the armory had always been Jormand’s favorite. It had given him time to think, a rarity in a life that always meant moving and fighting. It took hours to sharpen the spears and swords, to polish and paint armor and shields. Given enough time, even Jormand’s mind was prone to wander. It had always been a welcome reprieve from everything, but right then, all it did was remind Jormand what he was avoiding. He nodded to the guard that stood outside on his way out.

The second room he found himself in was his father’s old study. It was close to the armoy, only a short walk down a corridor in the west tower that, along with the east tower and the enclosed courtyard, made up the back half of the hall. The room was well maintained and absolutely nothing like Jormand remembered it.

An ornate carpet covered the floor like none Jormand had ever seen, all whorls of golden yellow on dark forest green and edged with golden tassels. On it sat a simple desk of dark wood and a matching high backed chair, both stood just before the fireplace at the end of the room. There were shelves beside the fireplace that Jormand was certain had never been there before, filled with scrolls, boxes and folders that certainly held more writing. There were other chairs too, well, stools really, that stood at the sides of the room for company but it still managed to look sparse with them. Those stools on the left wall partially obscured a mural depicting a sunrise over the sea but did not spoil the effect in the slightest by being there.

Ingrid had changed the room, and for the better, but standing there still made Jormand want to bow his head in shame. Partially from the memories of chastisement and anger directed at him by Martim and his easily stoked rage, but more from the knowledge that he was still disappointing that man, even after his death. Martim Derran would say that it was Jormand’s duty to press his claim for the seat, that it was cowardice that kept him from wanting it.

A man, according to Martim Derran, had only one goal: power. Anything else was only a means to that goal, even if you couldn’t see it.

It was too much for Jormand to take, and so he left, back to trudging down the halls. They were sparsely populated, which was unsurprising. Derranhall was built to house far more people that stayed in it most of the time. There were rooms enough for every northern house of import to send a representative, and they had been used for that purpose twice in Jormand’s lifetime. The rest of the time, they were left empty and unattended except for an occasional cleaning.

And so it was that Jormand did not pass a single soul on the last leg of his meandering walk. He strode past tapestries, murals, and beautiful sculptures and never stopped to look at one. He passed rooms where he’d grown up, where he’d played as a child, places with memories that did not interest him now.

He wasn’t sure where he was headed until he arrived. The carved wooden door that led to the apartments in the east tower. He stopped in front of it for a moment before opening the door.

Inside was the same anteroom, well kept and tidy, as he’d expected. His mother had made some improvements too. Dingy rugs had been replaced and rickety chairs had been removed. It was a simple room, none too surprising, except for the figure that sat in one of the chairs.

It was a lanky lad with curly light brown hair and oddly pale skin for a northerner, hardly old enough to be called anything but a child. He had that ungainly awkwardness of rapid growth and a scattering of fuzz on his face that couldn’t be called stubble. When he heard the door open, he looked up and then his face split in a wide grin when he saw Jormand.

At first Jormand didn’t recognize him, but that grin was more than familiar.

“Jormand!” Suhren cried, hopping up from his chair. “Brandt told me you were back, said you were talking with mother.”

Jormand couldn’t help but smile. The youngest of Ingrid and Martim’s children and sickly since birth, Suhren had never had a real place in the family. Yet he still managed to be the most pleasant by far. He got along well with all of his siblings, even if they couldn’t with each other, and even though Martim thought a son who could not go on campaign was worthless, Ingrid had always found things for him to do. He was always cheerful beyond what he had any reason to be, but Jormand didn’t question him.

“Oh Suhren, you shouldn’t have waited for me.” Jormand said fondly, scooping his brother up into a hug. He was still the taller of the two, but not by nearly as much anymore. Still, Suhren was easy to lift, thin as he was.

“It wasn’t a bother,” Suhren said cheerfully as he took his seat again after being set down. He bounced around so much it was a wonder he didn’t tip the chair over. “I talked with your friend for a little while, she’s pretty.” He added with another wide grin.

Jormand chuckled in reply and ruffled his brother’s hair. Suhren rattled in his seat. “She’s a little old for you,” Jormand said before taking a seat for himself.

Suhren shrugged. “I’m not ready for commitment anyway.” He said in a knowing voice, as if he had any idea what he was talking about.

“You don’t even know what that means.” Jormand replied.

“That’s how I know I’m not ready for it.” Suhren tapped his nose, like an old philosopher dispensing wisdom. Jormand could only sigh, with mock exasperation. Then Suhren jumped up from his seat.

“I better get going. I wanted to see you first, but I should really check on Ketrim.” His grin had disappeared. Suhren had been a sensitive boy, it was good to see that he hadn’t grown callous as many were made to. Jormand stood to hug his brother once more and then Suhren scampered off out the door towards the infirmary where Ketrim was probably being kept. Jormand would have to pay a visit too at some point. But later, for now he had other matters on his mind.

The door in from the antechamber opened a crack and Lana poked her head out, looking considerably less disheveled. She smiled up at Jormand and then opened the door fully. She’d already changed from her travelling clothes into a simple pair of dark trousers and a flowing white blouse. Neither quite fit her, she looked just a little too small for both, but she wore sturdy shoes that fit well. Jormand couldn’t help but notice the impression of a knife on her leg when she walked and the trousers pulled tight over it. He wasn’t surprised to see it, but it showed that no matter how comfortable Lana looked, she was not at ease in Derranhall.

“I thought it was you, I heard voices,” She said as she pulled the door closed behind her. “Was that boy your brother?”

Jormand nodded in reply.

“I didn’t know you had another brother.” Lana said thoughtfully.

“A sister too, you might have seen her. Tall, dark hair, looks like she’d stab you before saying hello…”

Lana grinned impishly. “I think I passed her in the hall.” She said. She started towards the door out to the rest of the hall, but turned just before reaching it. “I was about to go have a look around, care to escort me?”

Jormand shrugged. A walk would probably do him some good, he always thought more clearly while moving, and Lana was better company than his own brooding self. He trotted after her as she pushed open the door into the hall.

Jormand followed along and Lana led the way, stopping to look and gawk at every sculpture sitting in an alcove or mural on the wall that they passed. They were heading roughly towards the east tower, past the courtyard, but the going was slow. She had at least one question for Jormand every time they stopped, usually ones he couldn’t answer. She wanted to know who made the art and where they’d gotten it from. How old was it and was it expensive? Most of the time Jormand would just shrug. He didn’t know. It wasn’t the sort of thing he would take on raids, too bulky and you couldn’t feed people with carved marble. Still, she kept asking the questions and he didn’t really mind giving the same reply each time.

Their path led them along the perimeter of the courtyard. By chance, a good deal of Derranhall’s most impressive pieces were located there, and far cleaner than Jormand remembered. Each alcove and the artifacts lodged within had been dusted recently and light streaming in from the windows lit them well. Inevitably they passed a set of doors, open outside to the courtyard to let a not unpleasant chill in. Once she saw them, Lana immediately gravitated to them.

Outside, the courtyard was enclosed by the fortified stone walls that made up the only real defensible part of Derranhall. Apart from the two towers that rose above them, those walls were the only things that could repel any sort of attacking force. In truth they were redundant. Anyone foolish enough to attack Derranhall would be foiled long before they reached the walls whether they approached by land or sea.

The walls were made of rough grey stone, though you wouldn’t know it from looking at them within the courtyard. The interior faces were completely covered in plaster and smoothed as flat as could be so that the massive murals painted on each of them were as uninterrupted as possible. The wall to their left was painted with a breathtaking vista, mimicking the view that might be there if the wall hadn’t been built. Shining in the afternoon sun, Jormand could almost believe it was real. The waves twinkled, the rocks glistened with moisture, and the gulls wheeling overhead matched those he could still see over the wall. So real that it appeared that time had simply stopped for a moment as he took it in.

Scenes of the ocean were common enough sights for northern murals and murals were more than common themselves, but on this scale, it was impactful even to Jormand. The other two murals were just as impressive, massive and intricately detailed. They continued the same scene, unbroken, transitioning from cliffside overlook to deep pine forest as he turned.

In Jormand’s youth the murals had been weathered and cracked from age and neglect, left to fade and eventually be destroyed by the wind, rain, and sun. These new ones were another obvious incident of his mother’s touch on Derranhall. So was the courtyard itself, now well maintained and purposeful in its design. It was built in a natural depression in the rock atop the mountain that had been filled in the center with packed earth, too dense to be made into mud by the recent rain. Around the edges, the bedrock could be seen jutting out into a sort of natural shelf around the perimeter upon which the walls were built. It was matched in the murals, adding to the stunning realism of the painted scenes.

The courtyard was entirely empty, so when Lana and Jormand passed through the doors, they had the space to turn about and stare. Lana stopped to gape at each wall individually, audibly gasping each time she turned. She looked at him and shook her head, mouth wide open on her awestruck face. He grinned back, walking in a wide circle to take in the magnificently transformed space. His father had used it for very little. It was where Jormand and his siblings had learned to fight, Galier too, but he could not think of another purpose it had ever served. He could still see the rack of blunted weapons that once stood next to the doors, though it was long gone now. He could still remember the ruts in the uneven earth, worn by his own feet and those of his siblings. They were gone now too, smoothed over without a trace. Without those things, it hardly felt like the same place at all.

The sky above was a clear, cold blue, dotted with wispy streaks of cloud. From it the bold sunlight shone down to give the murals life. He could never remember it being so blue before, nor so wide. In his memory the view framed by the walls was small and strangled, like a far off window at the end of a hall, and the colors were always muted and dull. They were unimportant and unnecessary. He could vividly recall his father shouting orders at him from the spot where he now stood while he swung a sword too big for his young hands. He could remember muscles aching from work and lungs burning for air, he could remember welts given to him by a far more experienced hand and bruises from hits that he let Galier land. He could even remember his mother in the doorway behind, looking out from the shadows impassively as always. But he couldn’t remember the sun.

Strange, that, and how wonderful the sun felt now. More than shedding light onto the stone, more than bathing his skin with it’s warmth, it gave life to the walled space, once so remote and unconnected to the rest of the world. Reflected from the paint were pale colors that dappled the rock with barely perceptible hues. They shifted ever so slightly from the uniform sunlight but in that minute difference, there was even more beauty to be found.

Jormand spun around in another circle, pivoting on one foot. The walls all blended together into a brilliantly bright mass of color and light, and, bubbling up from below the weight of worry and fatigue that he’d been carrying since… since far before he’d even left Maerin, he could feel something else.

He’d been looking forward to returning home so that he could set out again, spend the season on the sea like he had in his youth. He hadn’t expected to find something worth returning to in Derranhall. The Derranhall he once knew had been altered, reshaped by his mother’s caring and capable hand in the time since he’d been gone. It was still familiar, but like a tree in its autumn livery, the town had changed, prepared to shed the past and embrace a new life. And it was accompanied by a cloak of many colors to set it on its way.

For the first time since setting out from Maerin, Jormand had no desire to leave. He laid himself down on the packed earth, uncaring that he might dirty his clothes, they were already ruined anyway. Under an unfamiliar sun and in the strangely welcoming embrace of his childhood home, now transformed, he was content. He closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar scent of his homeland. Once, that smell would have had him tensed and prepared to fight or flee, now it lent him a new spirit, energized and yet relaxed. It let him be, for a moment, a man who did not ravage and despoil, a man who could appreciate the beauty around him as he never had before.

He was vaguely aware of Lana sitting down beside him. He heard the scuff of her shoes on the dirt and the flutter of her loose clothes on the wind, but there was so much more to hear. The calls of gulls on the wing in the harbor, the sound of the wind in his ears, swirling like a whirlpool that made everything else faint and feeble. He could even hear footsteps echoing from inside, far off yet but slowly coming nearer.

“It's beautiful.” Lana said, her voice a reverent whisper. Jormand opened his eyes to see that she was leaned back on her elbows beside him, her gaze fixed on the mural in front of her through which the doorway carved its path. “I could almost believe they’re real…” She shook her head, a little smile playing across her lips. “But I’ve seen the sea, it’s nothing like this…”

Jormand closed his eyes again. He agreed, the sea was a tumultuous and violent thing, but freeze it in a mural and it became beautiful. In a painting, those waves didn’t threaten anyone, no storm clouds came to turn it into the beast that it could be.

“I like it here,” Lana said and Jormand opened his eyes once more. She was looking down at him, a strange expression on her face. “I’m glad I didn’t stay in Maerin, even after… everything that’s happened”

“So am I.” He replied without thinking. It was the truth, Lana had eased the pains of travel from the beginning. Around the campfire when it had only been the four of them, she’d always managed to keep in good spirits. Once they’d joined with the caravan as well, she’d been a quiet but constant companion. And when they’d had to travel through Torrol Market, hidden away in the wagons, she had been there to comfort him and keep him sane.

She smiled when he said it and he did in return. Her smile no longer made him think of a starved cat. The weeks of travelling had somehow left her looking far better than before, even as it ravaged the rest of them. Jormand especially. He knew how horrendous he looked right then, with ragged hair, dirty bandages and the remains of a blotchy bruise around his nose. It had healed nicely, all things considered, but it still pained him occasionally. That she could smile at that face was no small wonder.

She opened her mouth to say something more, but at that moment, the footsteps that Jormand had heard stopped, having reached the door.

He sat up to see Rianne Teloway in the doorway, leaned against one side with her arms crossed as she looked out at them.

Lana scrambled to stand, dusting off her trousers as she did. Her cheeks were flushed as she made an awkward bow in Rianne’s direction, nearly losing her footing as she did so. Rianne acknowledged it with a chuckle. She strode into the courtyard with the swaying gait of an experienced sailor, making it seem as if the ground were heaving beneath her and she was deftly keeping her balance on that sea of earth.

“There’s nowhere to go in this bloody town.” She stated, cocking a hip in a petulant stance as she came to a halt. She’d somehow found the time to change her clothes already, replacing her sailing garb with a pristinely white shirt and trousers. She wore her ornate polished bronze breastplate and greaves over top and had even strapped on her sword belt, although she’d foregone the rest of her armor. To Jormand it was a strange choice, but he supposed she was going for a striking visual more than actually practicality. It did work for that, he admitted to himself, grudgingly.

Lana offered Jormand a hand to help haul himself up. He gladly accepted. His wounds still taxed him and he was stiff and sore. He felt as if he’d been trampled by a herd of horses and left to drag himself home.

Rianne waited for some sort of reply, but when it did not come, she sighed and rolled her eyes, looking exactly like a spoiled noble scion. “You and I need to talk.” She said to Jormand, then she made a motion with her hand towards Lana that looked a good deal like a dismissal. Lana even started towards the door before Jormand called for her to stop. She froze midstep, her eyes darting between them, as if trying to judge which of the two had more authority.

Rianne set out another exasperated sigh. “So you’re not going to make this easy then. If you remember, we swore not to talk to anyone else…” She flung her hands up in defeat and shook her head. “Nevermind.”

Lana scurried back to stand by Jormand. Her eyes were still wide and twitched about like she expected to need to jump into motion soon. Knowing Rianne’s temper, that might not be unrealistic.

Rianne took a deep breath, then, in a voice that said she thought it distasteful said, “I have chosen to support your bid.”

“My what?” Jormand said, confused.

“Your bid for house seat.” She said as if it were the most obvious. How she knew that Ingrid was stepping down was beyond Jormand, but that wasn’t what bothered him most. He knew full well that Rianne did not care for him, not in the slightest. Why would she choose to support him? He wasn’t even sure if he wanted the position!

“What-why?” He stammered, struggling to get his thoughts straight.

“You,” Rianne said in a lecturing tone, emphasized by a pointed finger, “Are a known quantity. If—and I mean if—my father has sworn fealty to your house, I want to be sure we don’t end up with an entirely incompotent liege lord. Your mother is stepping down, your brother Ketrim is as good as dead,” She said that as if it were a foregone conclusion, which certainly did not ingratiate her to Jormand any more. “Your sister is an infamous pirate who has preyed on our vessels in the past and no doubt will again, and your younger brother is hardly more than a child. Somehow, you’re the one I trust most.”

It was hardly a compliment, but even if she judged harshly, Rianne judged well. Jormand wouldn’t want Vilde to run things, nor Suhren for that matter. The former was too reckless and the latter far too young. And although he still had some hope that Ketrim would recover, it would be a long process. Somehow that left him as the only choice, unless… Nowhere was it written that they could not choose someone else. It was tradition to pass the title through a family line, but by no means required.

“I… appreciate the gesture,” Jormand said and Rianne gave a curt nod in reply. “But I think I may have another solution.”

His plan was hardly formed at all, but even as it was, it was enough to make Rianne’s eyes pop. He proposed that they give the title to Ketrim, as was expected, but rather that leave the powers and privileges that came with it to him, have Galier, who was already fulfilling the role at least in part, until such a time as Ketrim was well enough to assume them again. He knew it was a risky play, both because the others would be hesitant to give control to someone outside of the family and because he would need a good deal of outside support. But, for all intents and purposes, Galier was part of the family, if temporarily, and although it had ended poorly, Rianne had history with him. She could vouch for him, Lana too, if it came to that.

“So you expect me to stand up for Galier? You want me to help that whore keep his power?!” Rianne was fuming, but Jormand had expected that much. He didn’t know exactly what had happened between her and Galier, but he had expected something like this.

“He’s not a whore,” Jormand began and Rianne made a face. “But yes. Since Ketrim cannot attend the meeting himself I will renounce my claim and stand for him. I’ll have to convince everyone else that Galier can be trusted while Ketrim recovers and I’ll need your help to do that. Yours too.” He said, turning to Lana. She made a strangled sound. “You’re both ladies with good reputations. They’ll listen to you.” He gave Lana a meaningful look. He didn’t think she would betray her identity on purpose, but best to be sure.

“But I’m not a lady…” She said in a low voice.

Immediately Jormand tensed, looking to Rianne. “I already know,” The fiery haired lady said in a lazy voice. “And I haven’t told anyone.” She added when Jormand narrowed his stare.

Jormand sighed with relief. “Well, as long as no one else knows, it shouldn’t be a problem. We won’t have to lie to them, just don’t bring it up.”

Lana nodded, but she looked frightened. Jormand hoped that it was just nerves. He’d seen her pull off the part of nobility before without too many difficulties and was reasonably sure she could do so again. If she ever slipped up, everyone would just attribute it to her being a southerner. Everyone knew southerners were a strange lot. He gave her a reassuring smile.

“So, you’ll both act as my advisors…” Jormand set out the proceedings for them, noting the customs they needed to be aware of. As advisors, their roles were simple. They would have nothing to do until he needed them to vouch for Galier. In the past their places might have been taken by house allies who could give testimony for Jormand himself, but the situation was novel. Jormand only hoped his proposal would not be dismissed out of hand. It if came to a vote, he was reasonably sure he stood a chance, but tradition had a tight grip on his family, on northern society as a whole…

He forced the doubts from his mind, as he’d learned to do. His intuition rarely let him down. Now was no time to start doubting it. He’d just have to trust in his family to make the best choice.

Back in his rooms in the east tower, Jormand found a variety of clothes already prepared for him. Some he had left behind when he’d gone to Maerin, others were clearly new. He would be expected to look his best but unfortunately, he had never had an eye for fashion. He knew a striking outfit when he saw it in public, but he lacked the skill to craft one himself. He’d always had Galier around to do that for him in the past, never really realizing how much he relied on that.

Thinking about Galier only made him more nervous for the meeting. If he was right and the family agreed to his plan, he would have a reason to return to Maerin soon, something he never thought he would want to do. He would be able to see Galier again then, and make sure he was safe. Of course he would also be increasing the responsibility piled on the shoulders of his friend.

He distracted himself by starting the process of washing up and preparing for the meeting. Firstly he had to strip down, clothes, bandages and all. It was a grueling process. Peeling off each bandage was slow and painful work, breaking scabs and reopening wounds and setting tiny rivulets of blood running down his skin.

A few of his wounds were infected, and required more effort to bear, stuck to the bandages with a putrid crust. They all stung something fierce once uncovered.

After he’d done that, it was time to painstakingly cleanse each one, using a basin of water and a washing cloth, as he had nothing else to use. He paid careful attention, knowing well the danger of letting infections fester from countless experiences.

Then it was time to choose what to wear. He covered his injuries with clean bandages and was happy to see no blood seeping through immediately. He was healing quickly. Then it was back to the bed where a stunning amount of clothes had been laid out for him to choose from. With so much, it was difficult to make any sort of decision.

Eventually, confronted by so many choices, Jormand decided to go with what was familiar. He chose a forest green jacket with silver fittings, worn over a simple linen shirt, a pair of dark trousers, and a good sturdy pair of boots. It was the kind of thing he might wear to impress soldiers under his command, not other nobles, but northmen valued martial prowess, and this would show that at least. He also found a leather cord in the recesses of the dresser and threaded it through the damaged loop of his father’s soulstone ring then hung it around his neck. He hardly ever wore jewelry and the small weight was strange.

Before leaving, he pulled on a pair of leather gloves. He remembered Galier saying something about gloves giving the wearer an air of power. He didn’t understand it himself, but he could use any advantage and it made him feel like Galier was there with him a little bit. It was comforting.

Looking in the mirror mounted on his dresser, Jormand was content with what he saw. The man shown there still looked worn from his travels, but at least the bandages were hidden and he’d managed to wash away the grime effectively.

Outside on the landing, propped against a chair for guests to wait in, he found a sword sheathed in an ornately worked scabbard and wrapped in an equally decorated belt. It did not belong to Jormand, at least he didn’t recognize it, but it had clearly been left there for him.

He picked the thing up and pulled the sword from its sheath. The blade was narrow and rather short, good for fighting in tight quarters. It was a sailor’s sword, made of good iron and polished and sharpened to perfection. The belt was long and dyed in an intricate pattern of thorns accented by silver fittings. It was meant to be worn across the body, from shoulder to hip to keep the sword from getting in the way but still easy to access. A somewhat archaic style, but tradition reigned in Derranhall.

Jormand resheathed the blade and set it back down on the chair. He didn’t want it. Instead, he kept the belt and put it on over his jacket without the sword or sheath. He slipped the haft of his hammer through the loop at his hip where the scabbard was meant to sit. It fit well enough, the head and pronged end of the hammer catching on the loop.

He detested the thing, but for some reason he couldn’t bear to leave it behind. Each time he saw it, he was reminded of the evil that it could do, such a simple tool and yet…

He didn’t want anyone else to touch it. It was tainted by the bloody work he had done. Carrying it was a reminder and although he did desperately want to forget, he could not let himself do so. Something had been different that day. He’d killed before, more often than most soldiers even, and he had always been able to withstand it. But that day, something had changed. It nested as a niggling doubt in his gut that he didn’t have the mental energy to deal with. So he remembered. It was the best that he could do.

As he descended the stairs, dressed like a warrior hero from the stories of old, it hit him just how reckless a thing he was about to go do. He was hardly more than a brawler and pirate, taking it upon himself to decide the fate of his entire family. His siblings were no better of course, but his own audacity was shocking.

If only Ingrid were willing to keep the seat. He told himself that he understood, that she had solid reasons for her choices. But as he prepared to decide their future on barely more than a whim, he could not help but feel that she was being foolish in her decision. He hoped that he wasn’t being foolish too.