DarkFyre
Chapter Five

Silmaria was on her hands and knees in the drawing room on the west side of the Manor, scrubbing at the wooden floor with a soapy rag. She was not particularly in the best of moods; some idiot had tracked dirt into the room, which was made all the worse by the fact that no one ought to really have been in here in the first place. Of course, given how downhill the upkeep of IronWing Manor was these days, it wasn’t even noticed or addressed until several days later, when she got to be the lucky one to clean it. By then, the dirt had plenty of time to get good and ingrained into the wood.
The Gnari sat back on her haunches, knees drawn up to her chest as she crouched there balanced on the balls of her feet. She was exhausted. In addition to her usual duties, Silmaria was awake late into the night last night helping Lirena tend to Taleesha, whose fever had returned with a vengeance. Silmaria wasn’t particularly good friends with Taleesha, but she didn’t want the woman to suffer, either. The Gnari girl wasn’t a healer really, but she had capable and steady hands and was familiar with the remedies Lirena liked to use. Taleesha had been delirious and blazing hot with fever through most of the night, but the fever finally settled into a low burn just before sun up. One of the other servants came to relieve Silmaria, staying with Lirena and Taleesha while Silmaria snatched an hour of sleep before rising to face the day.
A yawn overtook her and she stifled it with the back of a soapy hand, then plopped her rag into the small bucket beside her. She took a dry, much used towel and began to wipe the soapy water from the floor. All she wanted to do was get through her chores and duties and fall onto her pallet and sleep. She’d even skip dinner to go to bed early. She was lucky she wasn’t falling asleep face down in this puddle right now, really…
Her sleepy musings were interrupted by a loud, booming thud bursting through the house, and she leapt to her feet and very nearly fell on her ass. She froze, waiting for more commotion, then after a few moments of silence she at last remembered to start breathing again.
“Get a grip, Sil,” the Gnari girl muttered under her breath, trying to collect herself and make her heart slow.  It was probably just the big, heavy doors at the foyer of the Manor being thrown open with a bit too much vigor. 
She heard footsteps cutting through the dining hall adjoining to the drawing room and the foyer. Muffled voices darted back and forth in hurried conversation. At least four or five people were making their way toward the front of the Manor. Silmaria’s sensitive ears twitched forward attentively, but the voices were already too far down the hall for even her to make out what they were saying. Whatever they were about, they were about it in a hurry.
Since she was finished with her cleaning anyway, Silmaria decided to let her curiosity get the best of her. She gathered her supplies and slipped quietly out the drawing room, through the dining hall, and to the foyer. More than likely it was yet more of Steward Jonor’s trinkets and gaudy fineries. Deliveries didn’t usually come through the foyer, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone got turned around and made a mistake.
	The foyer was a spacious room fit to properly welcome visitors to the wealthy and Noble house IronWing. The ceilings were vaulted, reaching high overhead. The walls were finely made oak wood trimmed in mahogany, which itself was etched and hand carved in regal, ornate designs. Great wall tapestries were spaced regularly along the walls in House Ironwing’s colors of blue edged in silvered. A grand imperial staircase swept upward on the far side of the foyer to the left and the right, the steps, balusters, and rails were also a rich, dark mahogany wood. A length of carpet ran from between the feet of the either stairs forward to the front of the foyer, also in the house colors. The foyer let out into the front lawn to the south through a great pair of heavy ornate, lacquered oak doors, and continued under and past the imperial staircase and into the formal dining hall to the north. The west wall of the foyer housed a large window looking out over the western gardens, and on the east wall hung a large painting of Master Edwin’s departed wife. House IronWing’s coat of arms, a fierce silver Dragon with wings spread wide open on a navy blue field, hung in the middle of the balcony where the imperial stairs swept upward to meet.
	A small crowd of servants had already gathered in a little knot of people in the foyer. Silmaria hung back, her ears tilted forward and her eyes studying, but as she generally disliked crowds and saw no one in this one that she was particularly fond of, she stuck to the shadows under the stairs, removed but curious what the fuss was about.
	The fuss seemed to be about a stranger who’d come to the Manor. Silmaria's slitted eyes rested on the man standing in front of the small crowd and took him in. He was hard not to notice, big as he was. Silmaria guessed he was close to six and a half feet tall, and his body had the breadth and build to match. Even bundled under a thick winter traveling cloak, the Gnari girl could tell the man was solidly built, hard and muscled with broad shoulders and long, thick arms. 
The man drew down the deep hood of his cloak. He was handsome, very much so, if in a road worn way. Long hair the color of burnished copper was held back in a warrior's braid grown wild and shaggy from days on the road. Even under a few layers of trail dust his skin was fair white in the way of Dale men. A thick growth of beard as brightly coppered as his head covered the man's jaw, partially hiding a solemn, watchful face.
All this Silmaria noted, yet his eyes were what held her attention fixed. Even across the room, the man’s eyes were impossible to miss. They were strange and bright, an almost ethereal silver. They were intense eyes, sharp and intelligent. Unforgettable eyes.
And forget them she had not, for Silmaria knew she’d seen those eyes before. When last she saw them she was a girl, and he a growing youth just five years her elder. She remembered a scraggly boy, more legs than anything, with the short cropped hair of a squire. He had been home for a visit from court, where he had been apprenticed to the Royal Knight Brotherhood to eventually become one of their own. He was a serious boy, so serious he had frightened her a little bit. Though he had never said or done anything unkind to her, he had a quiet, brooding way about him. She’d been glad, then, that she was just a servant girl and had been able to avoid his notice. 
But for all that, she had never forgotten the young Lordling’s strange, beautiful eyes.
And there he was, standing there in the foyer, a man grown and the rightful Lord and Master of her home, returned at last. Silmaria stared at him, watched him, and her jaw set in stubborn anger.
She hated him. Bad enough that the Noble had left his home, his birthright, and his people in the hands of an incompetent, power grabbing, lazy oaf like Steward Jonor. Bad enough he had let House IronWing fall into neglect and disorder, let his servants and people who depended on him turn into overworked, overwrought, half-starved shadows of themselves. Bad enough that he’d never in over a year since his father’s death come home to check on his holdings or his folk or shown even a hint of interest in the rights and responsibilities tied to his family inheritance. 
All these paled, to her, compared to his worst crimes. Never once as Master Edwin went to his sick bed, falling more and more ill until he withered away and died, did Lord Rael choose to visit. Not even after Master Edwin died did he come. Master Edwin was a good man, a kind and honorable man worthy of love. He had been her friend, her lover, and her guiding strength. And his son didn’t even have the decency to come see him buried or visit his resting place after they put him in the ground.
Silmaria blinked away angry tears, took a deep breath, and pushed her anger and hate down where it could fester and seethe. She was smart enough even in her anger to know that exploding in the man’s face as he so rightly deserved would  probably earn her nothing but a swift boot in the ass out of her home. She would be forced to scavenge through the cold, bleak days and nights in the empty countryside, caught in the approaching winter. Or as bad, she would have to fend for herself in the capitol city just a few miles to the west. Trelling’s Rest was a hard city, especially for disgraced servants living on the streets. The winter was as harsh behind the city’s old walls as it was in the exposed open country side, and she was as likely to survive winter in one as the other. Which was to say, not likely at all.
So, she wouldn’t waltz up to the young Lord and spit in his face. But neither would she simper and grovel and fawn at him. She would serve, but she would be damned if she’d do it with a smile.
As she turned to retreat from the room and go find someplace quiet and secluded and far away from him, Cook jostled her elbow from behind. Silmaria was startled enough to jump, and that caused her to outright scowl then. She was deep in her head indeed, for Silmaria, with her keen ears and sense of surroundings, was usually not an easy person to sneak up on. And Cook was not precisely the quietest of people, for that matter.
Cook took no notice of her friend’s sour mood, though, gawping at the tall Nobleman in the foyer as she grabbed excitedly at the Gnari girl’s arm. “Look, look, that’s him! Master Rael! Eldeen’s balls but the man is big! Where’s the scrawny lad I used to have to give extra servings to, and who is this fine specimen of a man taken his place!”
“You’re drooling, Cook,” Silmaria said dryly, turning her gaze back to the man in question. 
“In more ways than one, Sil my girl, in more ways than…what’s this, though?” Cook leaned forward, her plain face screwing up in a squint, as the woman didn’t have the best of eyes anymore. “Is that a walking stick? Something’s the matter with him.”
Indeed, now that Cook mentioned it, Silmaria noted the way the tall man leaned heavily on a long, sturdy walking stick with his weight resting on it. When he stepped, he stepped with a limp, as if one of his legs were lame.
“He must have injured it in the war,” Cook said aloud what Silmaria was thinking, only she said it in a stricken, worried tone that made the Gnari want to vomit.
“Rightly deserved, I’m sure,” Silmaria muttered bitterly.
Cook rounded on her, wagging a plump finger in her face as she hissed at her not-so-quietly, “What’ve I told you time and again about that pretty little mouth?”
“That I’ve got something unsightly on it again?” Silmaria quipped, reaching up to wipe her lips. 
“Don’t start with me,” Cook grumbled, though Silmaria could tell she was fighting not to laugh at her jest. “You know damned well if comments like that are overheard you’ll be thrown out to starve, and that only if you’re lucky! What’s the matter with you? You’ve more sense than that, making snide remarks about your betters.”
“That would require that man to be my better, for starters,” Silmaria replied, then held up her hands as Cook’s mouth went wide. “Fine, fine, I’ll leave off, Cookie, don’t look at me like that. You look like you’re about to have an attack.”
“And it’ll be all your fault, if you keep on,” Cook snapped, then looked at her friend curiously, shaking her head. “Really, though. Why are you being such a wretch? You should be happy. All of us ought be. Maybe now that Master Rael’s returned, things’ll be better.”
Silmaria looked at the handsome young Lord doubtfully. Her tail whipped about behind her restlessly. “I don’t think so, Cook. If he gave a damn about his House, or any of us for that matter, he would’ve shown it a long time ago.”
“He ain’t been here. He didn’t know,” Cook persisted.
“That’s exactly my point.”
“Don’t you think he had more important things going on, out on the front and all?”
Silmaria shrugged her graceful shoulders and crossed her arms stubbornly beneath her breasts. “I think if he had more important things to worry about than his dying father and the state of his inheritance, that right there tells me all I need to know.”
Cook harrumphed and shook her head, her patience with her friend growing thin. “Get off it, girl. And come on. Look, Steward Jonor’s come out finally to talk to Lord IronWing. Come on, let’s have a listen!”
With a sigh, Silmaria let Cook drag her out of the shadows under the stairs and into the small throng of servants and workers who crowded before the Nobleman. 
Indeed, someone must have run to fetch the Steward and let him know that Lord Rael had arrived. The fat old man came waddling down to the main foyer as quickly as he could. He was sweating despite the cool morning temperature, fat beads rolling down his wide forehead and glinting in the thin ruins of hair on his largely balding pate. The tunic and breeches he wore were brightly colored silk in shades of burgundy and dark crimsons edged in thread-of-gold, and more costly by far than anything Silmaria had ever seen Master Edwin wear. Rings glinted on every one of the Steward’s thick, blunt fingers. A pair of soft soled slippers fit his feet in colors matching his clothes. The man’s small chin beard was heavily oiled and twisted into a point. He smelled of costly oils and perfumes that mingled unpleasantly with his nervous sweat. Jonor looked unsettled and tense as he clutched a silk handkerchief in a pudgy hand and wiped the sweat from his brow. 
“Lord Rael! What an unexpected surprise! Welcome home!” Jonor said. His smile was exaggerated and, to Silmaria, desperate. 
“You are…Jonor, yes?” The big Nobleman said after a moment. His strange eyes were studying the portly Steward closely, his silvery gaze intense and focused and not looking terribly pleased as he took in Jonor’s opulent clothes.
“I am, I am!” Jonor said hastily. “We’ve had no report of your return, my Lord, or a feast would already be prepared! I fear you’ve caught me quite unaware! Oh, what a blessing to have you home after so long, my Lord! These louts must look so poorly, with no proper welcome for our Noble Lord ready to receive you. Atrocious! Inexcusable!”
“No report came because I did not send one,” Lord Rael interrupted as Jonor began to glare about accusingly at the small cluster of serving folk around them. “Nor do I need a feast, or a welcome.”
“Uh…very well, my Lord, of course, of course” Jonor stuttered uncertainly, his overly-enthusiastic false smile plastered to his face. He glanced around, his sweating brow suddenly furrowing. “And where would my Lord’s retainers be…?”
“I’ve brought none,” Lord Rael replied, leaning on his walking stick heavily. That was unusual, Silmaria thought; a Nobleman of Rael’s rank and station, not to mention him being a Knight Captain, usually traveled with a respectable retinue of squires, personal servants, retainers and servants to see to their needs and their personal effects. For a Noble to travel alone, especially with an apparent injury, was near unheard of.
“What I need is a trencher of whatever is hot and fresh in the kitchens, and to have my things brought up to my old room,” Rael said.
“My Lord’s old room? Surely my Lord means to say the Master Suite,” Steward Jonor asked.
Rael’s piecing gaze didn’t waver. “I meant what I said. My old room.”
“Y-yes. Very good, Sir.”
“I want the household gathered in the main dining hall. All of the serving folk and staff. I will see them when I’ve finished my meal.”
“My Lord,” Jonor said, his voice growing even more tight, though his false smile remained.
His orders given, Lord Rael made his way, limping, between the sweeping imperial stairs and under the balcony, through the archway leading into the dining hall. Cook tugged at Silmaria’s sleeve and the two serving women made their way down the halls toward the kitchens.
“Well he’s a serious young man, isn’t he?” Cook chattered as they arrived at the kitchen. Cook set immediately to making up a plate of food for Lord Rael. Though she was less than thrilled at doing anything for the man, Silmaria nonetheless helped her friend gather up the freshest loaf of bread and a plate of roast mutton. It wasn’t fine or fancy and the Gnari was sure the Lord wouldn’t find it up to his standards, but it was warm and fresh and that was the best they could do right now.
“I hadn’t noticed,” Silmaria replied glibly. “All I noticed was Jonor sweating his fat ass off, which is about the only good thing I’ve seen out of all this.”
“You’re right about that one,” Cook grinned saucily. “He looked ready to soil his silks! The crow’s come to roost and that one knows it!”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” the Gnari woman countered. “Sure, Jonor is going to have to watch himself from now on, but you know him. He’ll slick-talk his way out of whatever comes his way. And who’s to say anything’s coming his way to begin with? Lord Knightly there hasn’t even been here since he was a boy. He probably doesn’t even remember what this place looks like when it’s in proper order, so how could he recognize how bad things have gotten? And even if he does, who says he cares? I haven’t seen any sign that he does.”
Cook eyeballed her sternly as she vented and complained, voice growing more bitter and petulant by the word. When Silmaria finished, the older Human woman grabbed up a ladle from where it hung from a hook overhead, which was not particularly clean, and smacked the Gnari girl atop the head with it.
“Ow! Cook, what in the nine hells!”
“Mind your tongue, you stupid little girl, before you end up getting it cut out, and mine with it for being here with you! S’the matter with you, honestly.”
Silmaria scowled at her friend and rubbed the tender spot atop her head. “For someone who seems to think so highly of Lord Rael, you seem awful afraid of him.”
“It’s not him I’m worried about, you twit,” Cook replied. She brandished her ladle threateningly once again.
Silmaria hopped back out of reach, not one to be caught unawares twice. She crouched down, grinning a Cheshire grin. “Who, then?”
“Jonor, course,” Cook hissed. She placed a few thick carrots onto the plate and leaned forward to speak to Silmaria in subtle tones. 
Well, subtle for Cook. 
“You said it yourself. Jonor is gonna slick talk his way out of whatever troubles come his way, or do his best leastwise. But I say, he’s gonna face a reckoning. The young Master’s no fool, mark my words, Sil. And Jonor’ll take as many of us down along the way as he can in hopes of getting away clean with the things he done that he shouldn’t and ain’t done that he should. And you flapping your fool tongue, saying nonsense about him or Master Rael, is gonna get you the wrong kind of attention when he’s needing someone to take a fall!”
Silmaria stared at the older woman for a long moment with stubborn defiance lighting her eyes. Finally, she relented, her ears drooping in resignation. “Fine, fine, you’re right. Damn you.”
“Damn right I am,” Cook nodded matter-of-factly, as if there’d never been any doubt. “Now come along and let’s get this meal delivered so we can have this meeting with the young Lord done with.”
Really, it was just Cook delivering the food. Already a small gathering of servants milled about, restless and nervous in the dining hall. Silmaria positioned herself at the back of the crowd, keeping them between her and the Nobleman and standing close to the group to be as inconspicuous as possible. It earned her some odd looks from her fellows, who were used to the Gnari keeping a pretty wide distance, but everyone was too distracted by the Lord’s presence to pay much mind.
Despite her attitude toward him, Silmaria couldn’t help but watch Lord Rael as he ate at the formal dining table. He was still wearing his traveling clothes, which were surprisingly simple and plain in design and cut. His thick cloak was the only thing of any real remarkable quality, a rich dark blue trimmed in silver, IronWing colors. His clothes were otherwise unadorned, a pair of thick black trousers and a heavy gray wool tunic made for winter. His dark leather riding boots were dusty from travel, and he had a pair of thick riding gloves folded and resting on his leg. He ate in silence, with his walking stick propped against his chair. It was impossible to read anything from his face, but his glinting silver eyes moved about the room, watchful.
By the time Steward Jonor entered the full household was assembled. Silmaria noted how few they were; though they were closer to three dozen than two, once House IronWing had proudly been served by twice as many.
Jonor had changed to simple and modest clothes more appropriate to his station. They were by and far the cheapest clothes Silmaria had seen him wear since Master Edwin’s death and the Steward’s subsequent seizing of power. He still smelled overpoweringly of spiced perfume.
Lord Rael finished his meal. He did not rush his pace, but ate as his leisure. When he finished, he wiped his mouth on a dinner napkin, and turned his attention to Jonor. His brows rose slightly in question and he swept a hand toward the assembled servants.
“This is it? This is everyone?”
“Yes, my Lord,” Jonor said, and had the grace to cringe a bit.
Lord Rael looked equal parts perplexed and displeased. “This can’t be right. My Father’s…that is, my House holds many more than this. I remember this place being alive and full of people tending the estate. Why so few now?”
Silmaria was balling her hands into fists again and she was literally biting her tongue to keep herself silent. That idiot! That great Noble twat! If the man had bothered giving a damn before this very second he would have known exactly what the situation with his people and his lands were. Instead, he was sitting there looking like the fool of a spoiled Lordly prick that he was, wondering why things were all amiss. It was all the Gnari could do not to go stomping off from the dining hall then and there. Cook’s ever watchful look of reproach was all that kept her silent as it was; her friend simply knew her too well and was watching her like a hawk.
“Yes, well. That is, I’m afraid we’ve had a decline in the number of servants employed here, my Lord. We no longer house the number we once did. Dreadful business, really.”
“Do tell,” Lord Rael said mildly. 
“Well, you see….” Jonor began. He hesitated, panic flashing in his eyes. And then his face changed as his small, sly mind found an answer.
“I’m afraid that when your Lord Father, may The Twelve gods rest his soul, passed away, we lost many of our workers. Most of them cited displeasure with the way Master Edwin ran his Household. He became unstable as his sickness took him I’m afraid, and quite belligerent. Always yelling at the help and abusing them, even as he weakened. His sickness took his mind from him alongside his body, you know. Those who didn’t leave of their own choosing were sent away by Master Edwin during his fits of delirium. On top of that, his illness unbalanced his judgment so much, he squandered much of the house coffers on nonsense and meaningless trinkets. I’m afraid by the time our Good Lord IronWing passed, the results…are what you see now.”
The silence that followed was all encompassing. The servants watched, their faces registering the shock and discomfort with what Jonor just said, but no one said a word. The Steward’s lies were bold and cruel, and he’d likely get away with it completely. Rael hadn’t seen his father in years, and hadn’t come home when Master Edwin fell ill. He likely had no idea the exact circumstances of his father’s illness. 
And what use was there for the serving folk to contradict the Steward? Most Nobles didn’t put much stock in the common servant’s voice, and though the Steward was a servant of sorts himself, his station and authority was above theirs. Whether because they believed they wouldn’t be heard and feared the consequences of the Stewards wrath, or they were simply too stunned to contradict him, the silence held.
“That is bullshit!” 
The whole room seemed to jump. Cook, getting over her surprise, tried to make a grab at Silmaria, curses tumbling over themselves in a panicked jumble. But Silmaria was already moving, squirming away from her friend and shoving the servants in front of her out of the way to step to the front of the crowd. Her exotic eyes flashed with emerald fire as she stalked forward, her jaw clenched, teeth bared. 
Jonor stared at her, the color drained from his face and his jaw fell open in a gape. “Y-you dare!” he sputtered at last.
Silmaria was past all caution by then. Jonor’s outright lies and slanderous words against Master Edwin had driven her immediately beyond any semblance of restraint. She walked right up to the portly Steward and put an accusing finger in his face, her wickedly sharp claw’s extended and pointing just inches from his cheek. 
“The rest of these cowards may not have enough love left for Master Edwin to speak up, but I do! You’re a miserable lying sod! Master Edwin’s mind was his own until the day he passed, and every last one of us here knew he treated us fair and good! No one left willingly. You forced them out! You forced out good people who loved this place from their home, and for nothing! So House IronWing could crumple and decay from neglect because there aren’t enough of us left to keep it up properly. And for what? Because you’re a greedy son of a whore and wanted the house funds at your fingertips so you could buy whatever useless decadence your black heart desires!”
By then the Gnari girl was so angry she was visibly shaking. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew this was folly, but years of bitterness and anger from being judged and shunned, the abuse and mistreatment over the past year, and most of all the pain of losing Master Edwin had built up too much, and now that she had let down her guard, she found she couldn’t stop herself. 
“I can’t stop you from cutting our food rations or working us into the ground. I can’t keep you squandering the House wealth on your own selfish desires. But I’ll be damned by the Old Gods and the New alike if I’ll let you bold faced lie about it all and drag Lord Edwin’s name through the mud to do it!”
By then Jonor’s face was flushed crimson and his false smile had at last fallen away. His eyes were wide, bulging and filled with incredulous rage, and his bejeweled fingers clutched in a distinctly strangling motion at the air. “Let me? Let me? As if the feelings or opinion of a wretched little mongrel whore like you matter to begin with! How dare you speak to your betters this way! How dare you speak this way in front of your Lord! You are nothing but a mangy whore who can’t keep her legs shut! That’s right, you beastly harlot; I know who you are, and I know what you are, and I know how to deal with women like you!”
The Steward lunged forward clumsily and raised up a swollen hand to strike the Gnari woman. Silmaria sprang nimbly back out of his reach. Jonor tripped, stumbling unbalanced as she moved beyond the range of his arm. The man turned even redder, if it were possible, and made to strike her again.
And let out a yelp of surprise as Rael’s heavy hand clamped around his wrist, holding it in a grip like steel. The Nobleman’s face was not pleased, and his eyes were hard and flinty. He made to speak, but before he could, Silmaria darted forward. She got in Jonor’s face again and spoke through gritted, bared teeth.
“You aren’t worthy of scrubbing the muck out of my Master’s stables, more-less running his house. He was a great man. And you? You’re a pretender and a coward. You know nothing about me.”
Jonor glared daggers at the woman, his arm quivering where he tried to strike, but Lord Rael’s grip was implacable. Then his face changed, and he gave a sickeningly sweet smile while his eyes dripped pure malice, the look of a man who knows he knows where to hurt someone worst. “I know enough. I know you haven’t served in this house so long because you’re a quality worker. The only reason Lord IronWing kept you around at all is found squarely between your legs.”
The servant woman stared into the man’s smug, superior eyes. The sneer fell from her face, her features becoming expressionless and still for the barest whisper of a moment. And then the moment passed, and Silmaria quite viciously smashed her forehead into Steward Jonor’s face with every bit of force she could. It was enough to send a resounding crack through the air, and Jonor screamed high and shrill, clutching his bleeding, flattened nose with his free hand. Without a word, Silmaria turned and ran from the room.
	Aside from the whining and whimpering of the Steward, the foyer was totally silent with shock. The servants glanced at one another nervously, uncertain and seemingly caught between fear of some impending punishment and gladness for Jonor finally getting what he so well deserved. 
The pudgy, bleeding Steward cursed miserably, holding his nose as the red sticky drops streamed between his fingers. “Someone grab that impudent little Gnari cunt! I’ll have her strung up from the trees, I’ll…”
“Do absolutely nothing,” Rael finished for him.
Jonor stared at him, incredulous. “M-My Lord! You can’t mean to let her get away with this!”
“I’ve more important matters to attend,” Rael said coldly. He still held firmly to Jonor’s wrist. Even leaning on his cane, The Nobleman’s grip was such that the Steward was beginning to lose feeling in his fingers. “I’m not the fool you think I am, Steward. Nor was I as out of touch with my Father as you’d like to believe. I exchanged letters with him to his dying day, and I know his mind was whole and healthy. I also know the state of House IronWing in his final days, and it was quite stable and prosperous. And I know that my Lord Father instructed you to keep things running in the same way, without making any changes to the servants or house running until I was able to return from the front.”
Jonor had gone from flushed to pale very quickly. He stared at the Nobleman towering over him with eyes wide with fear, and teetered a bit as if lightheaded. “My Lord?” He said, not seeming to comprehend.
Rael released Jonor’s hand and grabbed the front of the Steward’s plain tunic, wadding it in his big fist. He yanked at the man, who was too round to be very light, yet moved him as if he weighed nothing. “Steward Jonor. You have besmirched the name of my House, and the honor of my Lord Father, your sworn Lord. You have denied his dying wishes, taken IronWing funds and resources to use for your own personal gain and fulfillment. You have allowed my home, my lands, and what is mine by inheritance and birthright to fall into an unacceptable state. You have misused my people, wronged my staff, and let good folk go homeless and penniless without proper cause. You, Jonor, have failed in every oath you swore as Steward to this house, and you are every bit of what that girl accused you of.”
Jonor began to babble out a nonsensical litany of apologies, excuses, accusations, and pleads for mercy. Rael ignored him. He spied one of the few men gathered wearing the uniform of a House IronWing guardsman, a short, solidly built man with dirty blonde hair.
“You. Tell me your name.”
“Tomas, milord,” the man replied, dropping a bow.
“Tomas, we still have that holding cell in the back, yes? The one Father built to hold anyone who drank too much until they sobered up?”
“Aye, milord, it’s still there.”
“Good,” Rael nodded. He shoved Jonor, none too gently, toward Tomas, and the Steward stumbled and fell heavily. “See that Jonor spends the night in it. He will be on his way to Trelling’s Rest tomorrow to face the King’s Justice for his crimes against my holdings and people.”
“What? My Lord, no! Please no, I beg of you!” Jonor sobbed, reaching for Rael. Tomas grabbed the man by the back of his collar and hauling him backwards, nearly dumping him on his backside once more.
Rael stared at Jonor, the set of his face calm and hard and unforgiving. “By right, I could have you beheaded for your crimes against me and mine. Don’t push me, Jonor, I’m fresh from the road and not long on patience.” He raised his eyes to Tomas and nodded to the man. “Take him.”
“Gladly, Milord,” Tomas replied, and proceeded to show obvious enthusiasm for the task.
Rael watched the men go, then turned his strangely colored eyes back to his servants. He gripped his walking stick, leaned against it as he studied them for a moment. Such a blend of emotion on their faces. Fear. Confusion. Hope.
“I owe all of you an apology,” the young Nobleman said, his voice deep and rich as he pitched it to carry to all their ears. “I did not know things were so bad here. I did not know Jonor was false. And I should have, war or no. He will be punished, and I will not allow this to happen again. It is a late start, I know, and I understand if you all have no love for me for letting you be put through this. But I will make it right. You have my word.
“I need a few things addressed immediately, to get things on proper track. First, who is responsible for the kitchen here?”
Cook shuffled forward, did her best attempt at a curtsy, and then self-consciously began to fidget with the scarf wrapped around her head holding her hair up and back. “I am, Milord.”
“What is your name, good woman?” Rael asked.
“Rosella, Milord, but everyone just calls me Cook.”
Rael cracked a smile at that. “Very well, Cook. I need you to take two capable help, and make some food for everyone. Double whatever the usual rations are. If you don’t think double rations would be enough to send someone to bed with a full belly, then triple it. No one goes hungry in House IronWing from here on, understand?”
“Yes, Milord. I’ll make sure everyone sups well tonight!”
“Very good,” Rael nodded, dismissing her. Cook grabbed two servants from the cluster in the Dining Hall and dragged them excitedly to the kitchens. Servants began to speak quietly, and not so quietly to one another, their faces alight at the prospect of a good meal for the first time in nearly a year. They fell quickly silent when Rael held up a hand.
“Who here is good with sums? I need someone who is confident in their numbers, sure of them even.”
A moment passed in silence, then a Halfling nudged his way past the taller serving folk to stand at the front. He had a short, well-trimmed beard gone gray, a curly mop of salt-and-pepper hair, and a Halfling sized jacket that was heavily patched in the elbows. “I know my sums, Milord. I was the good Master Edwin’s books keeper before Steward Jonor was given charge. He stripped me of my duties. Said he could count for himself.”
“What is your name?” Rael asked the Halfling.
“Selm, as it please you Milord.”
“Selm, how would you like your old job back?” Rael asked with a questioning arch of his brows.
“If it please Milord, very much,” Selm replied, smiling nervously.
Rael extended his hand, which after hesitating a moment uncertainly, Selm shook.
“You’ll be a very busy man for some time, I’m afraid. I need an accounting of our books and supplies by sundown tomorrow. And check in with Cook to see what our food supplies look like.”
Selm drew himself up as a tall as he was able which, for a Halfling, was pretty respectable. “It will be done, Milord.”
“Good man.”
His gaze swept over the rest of the serving folk, addressing all of them. He met as many of their eyes as he could, his words frank and his expression serious, sincere. “It will take some time, and some hard work from all of us, but I believe we can restore my Father’s house…my house…all of our house, to what it once was. We can bring House IronWing out of the hard times it has fallen on and make it shine once more. My Father led this House with honor and diligence that did his forefathers proud. I have not done a good job of following in his footsteps. But I will change that, with your help.”
The serving folk stared at the tall, strong young man standing before them, uncertain what to say. None of them were very used to being addressed in such a frank way by someone of Noble station. They were still skittish, nervous from too many days of harsh treatment. None seemed to want to speak first.
At last an aged woman stepped forward, a shawl about her withering but strong shoulders. She looked at Rael critically with eyes that had gone cloudy with age but saw much. “My name is Lirena, Milord.”
Recognition flickered, hazy but growing, in Rael’s eyes. “Lirena. I know you.”
“I should hope so, Milord. I’ve served House IronWing since you were a lad running about this place like an unholy terror. Before the Knight Brothers stole you away and left our house less cheerful and more restful.”
Rael smiled again, this time more sincerely, and his face was the more handsome for it. “You used to scold me for tracking mud in after the winter snows thawed.”
“And well I should, since I was the one cleaning the floors!” Lirena said with a nod as her smile creased her weathered face. She sobered somewhat when she said, “You’ve been away for a long time, Milord. I won’t ask the whys; I believe you had good reason, and even if you didn’t it wouldn’t be my place to say so. All I know is, your Lord Father, may all gods rest his good soul, was proud of you. He believed in you. He knew you was about important business at the war, and when you returned, you’d be a good and proper heir. Master Edwin was the smartest man I ever did meet, and if he believed in you, that’s enough for me.”
Rael took the woman’s small, thin hand in his and patted it gently, meeting her upturned eyes. “Thank you, Lirena. Father would be proud of you, too.”
The Knight Captain looked to his people as one by one, they agreed to work with him to put the House to rights. “Thank you. All of you. Please, everyone go get some food. Eat your fill. Then retire early. Come the morn, we will all have much work to do. Tomorrow will bring many changes.”
As the servants filed out, Rael turned his eyes back to the old woman, and patted her hand once more. “One more thing before you go, old mother. That woman. The one who spoke against Jonor. What is her name?”
	The old woman stared at him for a moment, then a wry, rascally smile formed. “You certainly are your father’s son, aren’t you?”
	Rael looked puzzled. “Come again? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
	Lirena laughed and shook her head, and this time it was she patting his hand. “Don’t you worry about it, it matters not. Silmaria. The girl’s name is Silmaria.”

***

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