A Duty Despised

The walls of an ancient keep closed like a shell around the old, embittered hermit dwelling between them. Servants bustled around Derwennil, wielding mops, pails of water, and duster fans with the same grim determination of a soldier riding to a war he knew would kill him. Derwennil glanced wryly at the busy men and women, glad to finally have a purpose for them. These days, he only kept servants around to have a reason to spend his gold, lest he became a miser and hoard it all in a vault some hero would find in a hundred years and use to feed his dreams of glory.

The old soldier sighed, sinking into a comfortable chair at the head of the war room table. He'd never used the audience hall. Too drafty. Besides, his days as a leader of men were over. He had every intention of dying between these walls. But, of course, that was his desire, and if his time in Kerlotz had taught him anything, dreams only came true for those men holding the swords and scepters. The sound of metal sliding free of a well-oiled sheath echoed through the chamber as Derwennil removed the sword he kept by his side for solely presentational purposes. The silver of the blade was tarnished in places, blossoming out from Nick's and scratches on the edge. The leather around the handle had grown worn and scuffed. He saw in its reflective gleam the fires of many wars fought sheltered in tired green-blue eyes. This blade had been with him since the start. He'd spent a great deal of time and money keeping it in good repair instead of acquiring a new one. A foolish man's dream, he thought. Swords, like men, were made to be replaced.

He stared into the blade long and hard until something shifted in front of his eyes. Blinking, he glanced up, unsure how much time he'd wasted on pointless reverie. Standing there, he noticed the runner he paid to relay messages between his other servants and the village a short way outside the forest when the time came to restock their meager supplies. Derwennil felt sorry for the boy. He'd turned three and ten just last summer, and yet here he was, penned up in a keep settled deep in a forest haunted by all the damned who'd died within. Boys his age should be galavanting around town with friends and ogling at girls far out of his league. Around here, there's nothing but hard-nosed servant women. He enjoys their company well enough, but being the only one his age must be lonely. Derwennil understood the pain of lacking company. He'd become intimately acquainted with loneliness over the past decade.

"Sir?" The boy flagged his hand, hoping to catch his Master's attention, and finally, Derwennil offered it. "There's a carriage outside the gates. Shall we man the walls and load the ballistae?"

Despite his legendarily lousy humor, the boy's exuberance pulled a chuckle out of him. He recalled joking with the boy many years ago, when he'd been just a stable boy, and his mother hadn't yet been taken by the plague that he had no friends, so anyone approaching the gates should be treated as an invader, come to plunder their minuscule wealth. He resisted the temptation to reach out and ruffle the boy's hair. "Were it so simple, Argha," Derwennil said with a gusty sigh. "No, have the guards open the gates and send whoever's in that cart to me. Sadly, that guest is not an unexpected one."

The boy frowned but ran off. Derwennil shook his head. "Not that the gates or ballistae would stop her," he muttered. 

Several minutes later, the war-room door opened, and the old knight, trying his damnedest to burn a hole in the solid oak table with his stare, heard the approach of footsteps, two pairs of them. One's stride was long and leisurely, barely noticeable as a scuff of soft shoes on the floor, complimented by the gentle swish of fabric against the freshly swept and washed stone floors. The pattern of the second pair was significantly quicker, a younger person's steps. Slightly awkward and without purpose, they moved in an offbeat rhythm with the first and much louder, too, which suggested to Derwennil's mind, at least, keenly different dispositions. The owner of the second rhythm was displeased with their current predicament. As for the first...well, mapping her genuine emotions was a feat too great for even the most skilled wit-scryer to navigate. 

"Stand straight, Derwennil." Her familiar, deceptively mellow voice tickled the veteran's ear like a saccharine memory. "That hunched position doesn't befit a lord."

"That's why we're not in the audience room," he replied, not looking up from the table. "A lord, maybe not, but this posture is perfectly acceptable for a general planning his next campaign."

"But you haven't a map. How can you formulate tactics without one?" she rebutted lightly. 

"I've found no mapmaker alive who can approximate the peaks and valleys of a man's freedom. And, since that's what you've come to wage war on, I'll have to work without a map.

"Ah, so you did read my correspondence. I feared you might have seen my name and tossed it into your hearth unread."

"I did consider it,"

The woman laughed brightly, musically. Derwennil's hands clenched, nails digging into the wood. "Good thing you didn't, Derwennil. I ensorcelled the envelope. Had you burned the letter without opening it, any who smelled the fire's smoke would have been turned into an ass. All except you, of course."

"How kind. If that happened, the keep would have been a mess for your visit.

"Oh, what a shame that would have been," she replied tartly. "I looked forward to seeing which drapes you selected for the windows." 

Derwennil cringed, knowing he'd hit a sore spot. To see the truth beyond the veils of the future meant losing sight of the physical world. When the Sight manifested, its recipient's eyes were burned to the color of fine ash, their world thrust into darkness.

 He finally straightened up and forced himself to look at the woman. "So, Lysse," he said, falling back on that old nickname. "Do you want me to lie and tell you what a pleasure it is to see you?"

"I'd prefer the truth, no matter how harmful you think it will be." The woman's blank white eyes stared over his shoulder, as close to making eye contact as she ever came in casual conversation. 

"Then, despite all the respect and friendship that once lived between us, I wish you'd never contacted me. "You're the one with the Sight here. You already know my answer. So why waste the trip?"

Lysse clicked her tongue. "I gather you won't buy me saying I came to catch up?"

"Not for a copper."

"Then, I'm here to deliver news you'll not like. What I asked of you is not a request between friends. It is an order from Seer to soldier."

"I'm not a soldier, Derwennil rebuked sternly. "My answer remains no."

Lysse's unsettlingly empty eyes closed, and long waves of hair colored ghostly blue like Moonwoad vines, swayed as her head shook. "Semantics, Derwennil!" she clucked, clearly stirred, though her face remained as impassive as ever. "You have no choice in this matter. I'm ordering you to train this girl. You're aware of her heritage, and thus, you understand why she cannot fall into the wrong hands."

"And so you wish to foist her into mine," he finished curtly, before finally shifting his focus to the girl in question. 

Despite the awkwardness he'd noted in her step earlier, she stood silently at attention by Lysse's side. She looked almost nothing like her mother. If not for the delicate construction of fae facial structures, Derwennil may have pegged her for an orphan girl Lysse had picked up along the road. Her shoulders were broader than most girls, and despite her relatively scrawny appearance, a surprising amount of developing muscle was already visible in what little he could see of her arms. Testament to the strong stock of her father, he thought. Sight had not manifested to burn her eyes, so they were a piercing amber, like a hawk's. She might not have the Sight, but she's staring through me. Just like her mother's before the Sight stole them away.

Her hair, shorn short in a rough and choppy manner, only helped the overtures of common birth, but Derwennil knew the lackluster disguise wouldn't hold up under close inspection. It was startlingly red, shining like blood, but closer to the hue of rust. Shapeless burlap clothing covered most of her skin, which was a good thing, too, since it proved that this girl was no commoner's get. From afar, the warm tones of her skin gave the impression of a lovely tan, but peering close enough revealed faint traceries of shimmering gold marking her face and the forearms exposed by the poorly fitting burlap shirt. Derwennil imagined they traveled all across her body. Kendaleir buried some of his legendary wealth in her skin, but why? Whether this was the work of the gilded god of excess or another divine, their means and methods were always inscrutable, so Derwennil no longer took part in the established religions. Too much mystery in divinity. These days, his only gods were time and his bowels. 

"Does she speak?"

"I'd prefer if you didn't speak of me like I'm not here," she said.

"Apparently so. And properly, for a girl of two and ten," Derwennil said, looking to Lysse for an explanation. 

She merely shrugged. "When you can hold a sword with as much skill and lethality as men twice your age, you grow up quickly." 

Derwennil groaned, rubbing his hands down his face. "Why me, Lysse? It's not for my mastery of the sword. I had skill, but there were many greater than me, and what I had has waned significantly."

"You have seen more action than most of those 'greater men' combined. But you're right. Your sword skills were a distant thought when reviewing my options."

"Alright, so that leaves only a few things. My name has been decorated many times, but again, that's all behind me. I scattered, or sold, most of my accolades on the road as I marched out of the Chiefblade's ranks."

"You've answered your own question, dearest Derwennil. It's your allegiance that draws me. Or rather, your lack thereof."

Derwennil considered that a moment and horror dawned with understanding on his face. "What did the Army do?" he queried.

"On the morning I penned that letter to you, several armed men paid me a visit. They weren't seeking fortunes. My daughter says their leader had a large black cat on his shield. 

Derwennil's stomach flipped, considering emptying its contents right then. "The Iron Panther?"

"And six of his elite men." She laid her hand on her daughter's head. "Who do you think they were after? They cited her father's lowly birth as reason enough to confiscate her in the name of the Chiefblade. They laid the head of his prized hog at my feet, and I fear it's all that remains of him."

Chill fingers dragged down Derwennil's spine. Ronnet hadn't deserved such a grim fate. To die at the claws of the Iron Panther for the alleged crime of bedding a woman he'd never so much as touched was worse than anyone deserved. 

"My condolences for your loss," he managed faintly. 

"Many would have joined him had I done as they bid and relinquished my daughter that hard-headed cat." 

It all clicked into place then. "Faison wishes to add a golden cog to his war machine."

Lysse's hand slipped down to grip the girl's shoulder, stating without words that she wouldn't stand for it.

"I no longer march beneath the Chiefblade's banner," Derwennil said, anger rising as he realized what a mess he'd been thrust into. "But, they and I both know I owe them everything, including this keep. If they learn she's here, I could be court-martialed and forced to confess everything," he said weightedly. 

Lysse only laughed, that irritating, musical laugh, like honey for the ears. "Then you'd best not let knowledge of her slip. As I recall, you're quite skilled at hiding truths, Derwennil."

 "I'm not training her, Lysse!" The knight's cheeks burned, and he wasn't sure if shame or fury had brought the flush. 

When she spoke next, Lysse's voice had taken on that eerie, hushed quality that signified prophecy. Her face turned until Derwennil was staring directly into those blank eyes. "Your prerogative is your own. But when war grips this land again, you will number among the dead. And, in time, so will she. But, by the time her blade sinks for the final time, Dregmort Valley will overflow with rotting flesh. The world will wilt as iron claws dig into a world they think they own. Their folly will not dawn until the stench of death has laid so thick a claim on all lands that flies will flock to every corner." Lysse's face slackened from the rigid mask she wore when the Sight took control. "I cannot allow this vision to pass, Derwennil. I cannot take her where I must go."

The old knight turned towards the girl and saw her intense eyes brimming with sorrow and terror. A girl her age should be weaving flower crowns and gossiping with her friends about which boys they fancy.  

His tough, scarred hand trailed past his own broad shoulders, over his hawklike nose, and onto his nearly bald head, which once boasted a thick curtain of rusty red hair. 

"If you must go, then I will watch her, Lysse," he finally relented. "But when you return, don't be surprised to find her with a mop, not a sword."

"A mop is a worthy weapon. Every soldier should learn to wield it," Lysse replied matter-of-factly. She said to the girl, "I will return as soon as I can. Be kind to Derwennil. His mind may be fading, but his heart hasn't wholly rotted yet."

The Seer bundled her daughter into her arms and flurried her forehead with kisses before turning a fond smile onto Derwennil, depositing the girl at his feet, and swishing away as quickly and suddenly as the stormy vision that had forced them apart had come.  

"Damnit." Derwennil sighed. "Alright, girl,"

"Dyrdrei," she interrupted. "My name is Dyrdrei."

"As you wish." He knew her name, of course, but saying it hurt him immensely; a reminder of a life he'd been forbidden. "Seek out Argha. You have two days to get acquainted with the castle, then I'm putting you to work."

Dyrdrei didn't flinch or sulk at the news. "Yes, sir!" she replied crisply, slamming her heels together. She'd responded instantly to the note of command that had instinctively slipped into his voice. A natural-born soldier. That thought was the most disquieting one he'd had all day. He doubted he'd have the luxury of denying Dyrdrei training forever, though, by the gods, Derwennil wished he could.