Steward of Asthurn, intoned Steward Jercons in his mind, as he strode along one of the many cluttered passages in the Forest Towers, the Domrae's ancestral home.
Saying it over in his head made a little, pleasurable tingle course up and down his body, though every time it declined ever so slightly.
Steward of Asthurn.
Again, the shiver came but almost undetectably less.
He frowned, sliding his tongue along the roof of his mouth as though tasting something unsavory. His frown deepened as he found no satisfactory solution to his diminishing returns. As steward to the house of Domrae, he knew all too well about diminishing returns. All too well.
Having gone over the accounts and ledgers and reports for the past several weeks, a more in-depth examination—he already knew the general state of things from his regular duties—an unacceptable truth had emerged. The Domraes, though poor by no means, never maximized on the potential they possessed.
He strolled along a corridor lined with handcrafted tables laden with flower arrangements, their stench tickled his nose with a cloying heaviness. Hands clasped behind his back, a thumb tapping away as his mind calculated facts and figures, he spared not a glance for the frivolities and knick-knacks that littered the space.
Such egregious oversight must be corrected, he thought. He picked up his pace, making his way toward his old master's study. Now, his study.
He had tried to convince Lord Domrae to adopt more aggressive strategies, more profitable policies, when it came to the management of Asthurn, but the man had not budged on the matter. Not one jot or tittle. Centuries of family tradition had befuddled his vision and good sense, stifling his ability to perceive the opportunities, the ponderous wealth that could be amassed.
"I have enough," Lord Domrae had said. "More than enough. It is better that I share my excess than stockpile it, don't you agree?"
Of course, as steward, he had been obligated to agree with Lord Domrae. If he had done otherwise, his long-departed father would have risen from the grave to tan his hide and twist his ear until due deference was shown. But all that had passed. Now, he was the master to defer to.
His heels clicked along the polished hardwood floor, muffled every so often as he strolled over a carpet. Coming to the imposing study door, he laid his hand on the latch as a new thought struck him. He paused there in consideration.
If I can show the king how industrious I can be, he thought, he might just transfer the duchy entirely to me and my line. Title, land, and all.
Shifting his weight to a single leg, still holding onto the latch, the steward cocked his head, as his mouth twitched with a sidelong grin.
Of course, the Domrae whelp had become the Warden and therefore no longer bore the Shadow mark. But the lad's new responsibilities would most likely keep him quite busy and require him to leave the running of Asthurn in his steward's capable and trustworthy hands. The boy could return, but as with all lofty endeavors an element of risk existed. This was a risk Steward Jercons gladly took.
Breaking off his musings, he turned the latch, putting his weight against the heavy door. It swung smoothly on its hinges, revealing the empty study with its massive, oaken desk at its center. Windows, stretching the entirety of the wall behind the desk, unshuttered, revealed the tolerable summer morning. One window had been cracked, allowing necessary air in. Distracting birdsong floated in as well. Books and other odds and ends occupied the shelves that lined the walls. Everything was as he had left it. Although he would have to get rid of some of the junk the Domrae family had accumulated over the years. Fresh morning air was necessary. Clutter on the other hand was not.
He turned, pushing the door gently closed. On a previous occasion, he had simply shoved it without controlling its closure and had nearly scared himself witless with the loud result. And follies were never worth repeating twice. Latch secure, Steward Jercons turned back to the desk only to fling himself bodily against the door, a stifled cry escaping his lips as a hand rushed to his chest to aid his fluttering heart.
Masis Domrae now occupied the large, leather chair behind the desk, appearing very much like his father had. His face blank, his elbows rested on the arms of the chair and his fingers were steepled. Body motionless. He held the pose for several seconds more before a chuckle broke the stoic attitude.
"Come steward, sit down," he said, motioning to one of the chairs sitting in front of the desk. "We have much to discuss."
Steward Jercons, to his credit, managed to wrangle his heart to a comfortable rhythm, forcing his feet to carry him forward one shaky step at a time until he sat before his former master's son.
Why did I have to tempt fate and even think of him? he cursed to himself.
"First of all, I have to thank you," said Masis, his voice filled with much more authority than sobbing wretchedness unlike the night he left. "From what I've observed, you have done a wonderful job not only protecting but advancing the interests of my family in my absence. You're to be commended."
"You're...you're too kind," said Jercons, forcing a smile that hid his distaste at being complimented by someone so many years his junior. "I will always serve the family Domrae to the best of my ability."
Masis' smile became a bit off balance as his nose twitched as though detecting a foul odor. Jercons got the distinct impression that the boy sitting in front of him somehow detected his carefully hidden disgust. But he shook the impossibility away. Such nonsense was meant for decrepit old women who gave themselves over to fable and folklore rather than common sense.
"Yes, you have served us well over the years," said Masis, nodding his head slightly. "Your family has acquitted itself with honor over many centuries. But I'm afraid you won't be serving me much longer."
"Oh?" Jercons swallowed, half despairing that he was being replaced and half hoping that Masis would fulfill his every hope.
"Yes, with my new responsibilities, not to mention...painful memories, I won't be able to give Asthurn the proper amount of attention it needs."
"I understand," said Jercons, shaking his head, mock sympathy firmly in place.
"Because of the circumstances, I have petitioned the king to transfer both the land and its accompanying title to someone who will be able to give it and the people the attention they deserve."
"A very sensible decision," said Jercons, barely able to contain the giddy energy that was building in his stomach, nearly making his entire body shake with anticipation.
"And I could only think of one person to undertake such responsibilities. Someone who did me a great kindness during one of the darkest moments of my life."
"Your gratitude is breathtaking."
It's me! Steward Jercons crowed within. I took the weight off his shoulders when his family died. I showed him that great kindness.
The steward slid forward in his seat, hands clasped, shaking with giddiness. "Your Grace, I hope that I can..."
"Serve your new duke as well as you have served me?" asked Masis, cutting him off. "I would certainly hope so."
"...serve... What?!" The stewards mouth hung open, not comprehending the words he had just heard.
"Casm, would you come in, please?" Masis called out, not offering any further explanation.
Jercons stood to watch the door swing open ponderously. From behind, Masis offered him a few more words.
"There are some things on the desk that you are to give your new duke after you meet him. You will treat him better than you did me."
The door came fully open, revealing Casm, a son of one of the lieutenant foremen, responsible for several of the logging camps at any one time. The steward knew Casm by sight but he had never talked to him. Such disparate positions made interaction with one such as him unthinkable.
"I guess Masis has already gone then?" asked the new arrival.
The steward spun to find the chair now empty and the desktop occupied by three items: a parchment scroll bearing the royal seal—no doubt the royal transfer of title—a letter bearing Casm's name, and a single leather pouch, bulging with its contents.
How could this happen?
One moment he had been planning his rise to the peerage and the next all his ambitions had come crashing down around him. He would have no title. No land. Nothing. Instead, he would have to serve this new upstart, whose line held no distinction, no distinguished history, until he died.
"Steward, I see that he has left several things for me," said Casm, his voice wavering. "Would you be so kind as to read the letter to me?"
"Yes," said the steward, still numb from what had just taken place. "Yes, of course, milord." His usual deference reasserted itself very quickly. He took up the folded paper, breaking the seal, and opened it to find Masis' masculine, but neat script.
Casm,
I'm sure you're feeling overwhelmed at this point, but you needn't be. Your love of Asthurn and its people will see you through all your times of doubt and indecision. You will make a fine duke, much more than I ever would have. Serve the people, and they will serve you.
Also, I return to you the bag of fifty silvers you so graciously gave to me on that night I wish I could forget. They belong to you as champion of that Bolae match. Please, keep them this time.
I hope you'll allow me to visit from time to time, but Asthurn is yours. My home is now yours. Make it your own.
Masis Domrae
Warden of Haimlant
Jercons let the letter fall to the desk, his eyes unable to see neither the room or the man standing in front of him. Casm's next words pulled him from his stupor.
"Not likely," he muttered.
"I'm sorry, were you talking to me, milord?"
"Oh. No. Sorry. Ummm, I was just saying that it's not likely I won't try to return the silver."
Steward Jercons just stared blankly at the newly made Duke of Asthurn.
"It's a bit of a joke between us. One I'm sure will go on for years, so you'll have to get used to it." Casm patted the bewildered man on the arm.
"Yes, milord," said Steward Jercons. "Yes, milord."
*DON'T FORGET TO VOTE*
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I hope you enjoyed THE WARDEN!