Nathye spurred the horse further on the trail, wishing again that he had some string to tie his long hair with, to keep the black mess from getting into his eyes. They had left the fields behind, the road sloping up, becoming rocky. Few trees sprouted, holding on to what little moisture they could attain from the air and the water their roots were able to reach. The air smelled clean and dry the higher they rose.
The black horse, all sleekness and muscles, was frothing at the mouth. It would not be able to keep up the pace for much longer. Still, it had been his father’s horse, and there was no one who would now tell him what to do.
“Your Grace, the animals will not long be able to maintain such a pace,” said the predictable voice of Ser Dafeld, his father’s castellan.
“They do not have to,” said Nathye, urging the black horse onwards. They would all have to learn to treat him as the duke now.
The monastery was a day’s ride away. He had to get there, had to get an answer from his father. Looking back, he saw the row of flagging horses behind them. His horse was more motivated than most, smelling the scent of death mingled with the familiarity of a favored rider. Still, the rest were getting tired. None except Ser Dafeld understood his urgency, why he had them saddle their horses and ride for the D’ell with such force.
He thought back to the night before when he had visited his father in his study. For the seventeen years of his life, Nathye had watched the man indulge himself more and more. When Nathye was young, and his mother was still alive, he remembered his father engaging with other dukes in matters of state, while Nathye was carted off to be with his mother.
For the last few years, his father had enjoyed good wine and had invited traveling troubadours and minstrels to perform at Bewic. He had begun frequenting widows in the outlying towns and even throwing elaborate parties for rich merchants.
“You should have seen them, Nathye,” his father proclaimed, espousing the latest play he returned from. “The leading actor was such an orator, the entire first row shrunk from his declarations.”
“I’m sure it was grand, father,” Nathye said, seething inside. Was this to be his life, joining his father to see plays, watching him woo every spinster, discussing the quality of this actor or the notes of that wine?
As if on cue, his father said, “Nate, I will be visiting Mistress Cece for a few days. She has some vintages coming in that I would like to sample.”
Wine, indeed. Nate would not live this life of a fop, a dandelion sucking in the rays of the sun, dying when the wind carried his life seeds away. No, he would be as the emperors of old, as the mighty Plita River that swept anything in its wake. He would be remembered. He had finally decided.
Nathye got up and went to the wine cabinet. “Shall we have some of the special red that you purchased before you leave?”
“Yes, yes. Please open that aged Berion,” his father said, eyes closed, mind elsewhere.
Nathye opened the bottle and poured them both glasses. His back to his father, he pulled out the powder he so painstakingly attained in one of his visits to Pacot and dropped a small amount into his father’s glass.
Swirling both glasses to air the wine, he watched the rich dark red of the wine settle, leaving a pale red film on the side of the glass to slowly descend and join the rest. The powder dissolved, leaving no visible trace. The gray merchant had promised it would be so, yet Nathye had no way to test that his father wouldn’t notice it.
Steeling himself, he brought both glasses over, handing his father the glass. His heart was pounding, but the deed was now done. Either way, he would not go down in obscurity.
“Ah. Thank you, Nathye,” said his father, raising the glass. “To good life and good wine!”
“To great life!” said Nathye, raising his glass in kind, then bringing the glass to his lips and drinking liberally from it. It was, indeed, a good wine.
His father did the same, again closing his eyes, savoring the taste.
They sat there in silence, enjoying the wine, when his father’s breathing became labored. His eyes bulged, and he looked at Nathye.
“Father? What’s wrong?” The next few seconds would determine if he was successful.
His father opened his mouth and said, “I can’t—”
Nathye got up. “Father?”
“I can’t—” hand pounding on the table. It was a good thing his father had put the glass down before.
Nathye moved the wine glasses away, looking at his father. “What can I do?”
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“Nathye, you… must… know—” He must have known he was dying. He was struggling to speak now, having a hard time breathing, though his airways weren’t blocked.
“Father, what do I do?” Nathye said, making his eyes large as if in surprise or shock.
“The word—” his father started, then, succumbing to the poison, he took one last gasp of air and fell face down onto the table.
“Your Grace, we should camp here for the night,” said Ser Dafeld.
They had ridden hard, Nathye pushing on and the entire group of people following. He was sure he had lamed his horse, but he didn’t care.
“We are not stopping,” he said. “We carry on.”
“This is where we leave the horses, your Grace.”
Ser Dafeld had told him about this. The path up to the monastery became steep, and people walked the last of the way up. He would have fixed this road, had it been his. The monastery had stood for thousands of years, after all. Maybe this was how the monastery ensured that people only came up if they had a great need.
“Very well then, we leave the horses here, but we go on,” Nathye said. “Set a carrying rotation for the body. Put me in the first round.”
Dismounting, they ate a quick meal and did what they could for the horses, leaving a man behind to watch them. Nathye and three other guards each took one of his father’s shrouded limbs and started the arduous climb. The men were tired, as was Nathye, but he could see they were too proud to show weakness in front of their new Duke.
Pushing up, struggling under the weight of his father, who had enjoyed a lot of food and wine, Nate cursed the reason for this trip.
The night before, once his father had stopped moving, he emptied his own glass back into the bottle, cleaned the glass, and made sure to put it back on the shelf. He looked around, making sure there was no other sign of him being there, then opened the door and looked around. No servants were around.
Stepping out, he closed the door, took a few steps back, then retraced his steps and knocked on the door.
“Father?” he called out clearly. “Father?”
When, obviously, no reply came, he knocked again. One of the cleaning maids came by to hear what the commotion was.
“He should be in there, my lord,” she said.
He nodded at her, then opened the door.
“Father? Father!?!?!” he yelled out in surprise, rushing into the room.
The maid, hearing his concern, came after him to see what was amiss. By then, he was by his father’s prone form, holding his hand, trying to get him to wake.
Looking back, he said, “Call the seneschal and the castellan. Hurry!” Turning back to his father, he continued, “Father, father!”
When the two arrived, a couple of minutes removed, he was sitting opposite his father, head in his hands.
What followed was out of his hands. The two took command, organized taking care of his father’s body, and sent him to bed. He was happy to play the shocked son, not yet understanding what was going on.
The surprise came when the seneschal, Ser Ancis, came to him in the early morning hours and dragged him to the family’s crypt. Grabbing a torch, they made their meandering way inside, past his uncles’ and grandfather’s tombs, past older, unremembered family members.
“Why are we in this part? Surely there is space for my father elsewhere,” Nathye asked.
“Bide, Your Grace,” Sir Ancis said, continuing their walk. At times, he used the torch to burn some cobwebs off to clear the way, the smell of the burning pitch mingling with the undisturbed dust of ages past.
“Do you know what is here?” Sir Ancis asked, coming to a stop in front of a non-descript pillar.
Nathye was shivering, mostly from the cold. “The dead,” he said. His eyes were red from lack of sleep. He had waited all night for someone to come and accuse him of murder, but no one had. Sir Ancis, seeing him so when he came to fetch him, patted him on the shoulder and told him to come along.
“Your family is not the only thing residing in this crypt. Has your father talked about the word?”
Nathye almost said, “He was about to,” but caught himself just in time. “A word?” he asked instead.
“The word,” Sir Ancis said. “Your father never explained the entirety of it to me, but there is a power here. It is enslaved with a word and gives the head of the family power. If you do not enslave it, though, it will control you.”
“That’s superstition,” said Nathye.
“So I thought. Your father told me about your great-grandfather, Duke Ephel.”
“Ephel The Incompetent who almost lost the house?”
“I would not presume to call him that,” said the seneschal, “but I understand that he never deigned to use the word. Your grandfather had to beg him for it, then assert his control on whatever lies here in order to regain the fortune of the house.”
It was past midnight by the time Nathye and his men arrived at the gates of the monastery. One sliver of a moon was in the sky, the other barely visible on the horizon. Stars shone through the clear sky, making it possible to walk up the narrow trail.
The temperature dropped the higher they went. Cold wind from the desert blew past the monastery and down the mountain, making them shiver. Still, they pushed on, Nathye leading with Ser Dafeld bringing up the rear, urging the stragglers onwards. One man had twisted his ankle and had to be left behind to be collected when they returned.
Nathye had rotated three times through carrying his father’s corpse. He was not looking forward to a fourth, reconsidering the entire endeavor, when he took a step up the trail and saw the walls of the monastery peeking up above the rocks ahead.
“We’re almost there,” cried the man behind him, a chorus of happy calls flowing back up from the tired men farther down the trail.
With renewed vigor, they made the last leg of the trip, stopping before the large gates. There were no guards, no one to greet them. The gates were closed.
Using his open palm to bang on the gate, Nathye yelled, “Open up!”
There was no response. He waited a minute, his men pulling out water skins and quenching their thirst. He did the same, taking some water from Ser Dafeld, then faced the gate again.
“Open!” he again ordered, emphasizing the command with his hand to the gate.
The castellan joined him, took out his sword, and, using its pommel, struck the gate a few strong blows. “Open up in the name of the Duke of Bewic!” he yelled.
There was noise on the other side, some poor soul finally pulled out of slumber to arrive at the gate. Nathye could hear, “Hold,” while someone fumbled with the latch on the other side, then a side gate was pulled open, and a bleary face peered at them.
“It is the middle of the night. You made the climb up now?” the man asked, looking them over.
“We must consult the dead,” said Ser Dafeld.
“You may sleep in the courtyard for now, but the dead can wait till the morn.”
Nathye pulled out his sword and walked up to the men. “The dead have forever, but I do not. Wake up whoever you need. I will speak to my father tonight!”
