The Iron Hound

4.4

The arched window within Idris' private quarters commanded a view of mist wrapped scrubland, shadowed by rolling hills painted brown from winter's grasp. The expansive Carnac mountain range carved a jagged grey rut out of the horizon, marking the boundary to the tutelar's domain.

Idris' gaze dropped as the clatter of wood echoed in the still air. Below, beyond the inner wall, his young varlet took instruction from one of the three supposed masters the tutelar had hired over the past fortnight. With a reputation that reached to the far corners of the country, Lowen Gwedgeros did not come to The Dincroft cheaply. The man had purportedly mastered seventeen weapon schools, a number Idris viewed with a great amount of scepticism. He could not ignore recommendation after glowing recommendation, however, and he was the first of the tutors to be contracted and find a home within the castle's walls.

Clasping his hands behind his back, the tutelar's eyes tracked the varlet's movements. He constantly readjusted his grip on the long wooden staff Lowen insisted he train with. Idris had found himself disagreeing with more than one of the weaponmaster's teaching methods. The name of Menhyr was widely associated with its highly trained pikemen, but as a varlet and future tutelar, Baethen would not be counted among them. He saw no reason to train the boy in the foundations of pole weapons from the outset.

The varlet side-stepped, attempting to avoid a lunge aimed at his shoulder. Lowen's swift jab caught him despite his agility. The staff clattered to the ground. Even from his distance, he heard the curse burst from Baethen's lips.

Idris' fingers curled behind his back.

Lowen barked instructions at the varlet, but they fell on deaf ears. Baethen spun away from his tutor, storming across the yard, sending a pair of rock doves scampering for higher ground.

The tutelar grunted, putting the sight out of his vision as he turned towards the array of items splayed over the off-white cottons atop his bed.

He released his grip on his wrist and ran a hand through tangled hair. Faint laughter drifted in through the crack in the window, guttural, mocking. Idris ran his tongue over his teeth, before clenching his jaw shut.

He plucked a scroll from where it was sitting on the bedside table. It had been folded numerous times until it was small enough to fit in a sparrow's pouch. Flicking the parchment open again, he traced the fine scrawl with his index finger.

Rhonwyn very rarely provided wholly good news. Today was no exception. Still, the capital's political maze was inordinately difficult to navigate, and he could entrust the task to no-one else.

She insisted matters were under control. With winter well upon them, there was little else he could do but take her word at face value. The investigation into the Rethollow estate affair had blown over, at least. For now.

Striding through the bedroom and brushing the curtain aside, he stepped into the study, heading straight for the hefty unit against the wall. He pulled an inkwell and quill out of one drawer, followed by a sheet of coarse paper from another.

He'd penned little more than the initial greeting before a knock came at the door. Idris sighed and closed his eyes. Straightening, he called his acknowledgement and cool afternoon light spilled into the darkened room.

It took a moment for Idris to pick out the details in the silhouette.

"Boden," he greeted. He ran over the expected duties for that day, noting a meeting with the steward was not one of them.

"My lord tutelar," he said primly, bowing.

The steward was an old man, affected by memories of times long past. He clung to them like a babe to a mother's tit. Idris prepared himself for the tedium that would surely follow.