Darfyre

***

All content of this story is copyright {2014} by Returning_Writer_Guy and is my intellectual property. This is purely a work of fiction and fantasy and not based on any truthful events. No individuals were harmed as none of the individuals in these stories exist. This story is not to be redistributed under any circumstances without my express written permission.

***

A light knock sounded on his door the next morning. Setting aside the remnants of his breakfast, Rael wiped his mouth before rising and answering the knock, half expecting it to be Silmaria.

Selm stood on the other side of the door instead. His Halfling advisor bowed low. "Apologies for disturbing your breakfast, Milord."

"It's all right, Selm. No harm done. How can I help you?"

"Milord, I believe we've found something that needs your attention."

Rael arched a curious brow. "What could need my attention this early in the morning?"

"It's the corpses, Milord. The strangers, I mean."

Rael's face immediately shifted, deadly serious and all business. "Show me."

The sky was a dreary gray-white that promised a fairly gloomy sort of day. Snow was falling lightly and though the morning wasn't as cold as it had been the last few days before, the wind cut sharp and cold as a knife.

Selm led his Lord to where they had placed the bodies, up on a gentle rise about a hundred yards in front of the Manor. The bodies were arranged neatly under the towering old oak that capped the hillock. All of them were covered in plain white cotton shrouds and were dusted with the lightly falling snow.

"Well? What's the problem?" Rael asked.

"Here, Milord," Selm nodded. He grasped one of the shrouds and pulled it down to bare the corpse from the neck up.

Rael crouched down for a closer look and his jaw set hard. The killer was as pale in death as he was in life. He appeared to be an ordinary man in his thirties like any other, his face plain and un-noteworthy. Except that there was a very noteworthy rune carved deep into the man's forehead. The rune was distinct, the mark going down almost to the bone of the man's skull, the edges of the wound red but clean, showing the handiwork of a very sharp blade.

He had no notion of what the mark meant, but Rael was positive he'd seen the rune before, etched into the shaft of a black arrow meant to end his life.

The nobleman pulled the shrouds back on each of the corpses to confirm with his own eyes that each one did, indeed, have a matching rune carved in their heads.

With Selm's help, Rael covered the bodies back up, and then turned the intensity of his gaze to the Halfling. "Who else knows of this?"

"Kel and Orlion. They helped move the bodies out here and get them prepared."

"Speak with them for me. Make sure no word of the mark leaves their lips," Rael instructed.

"As Milord says," Selm agreed.

"Good. Have a pyre set up. I want these bodies burned to dust, and their ashes scattered far from here."

Selm looked surprised at that, and a bit confused, but he voiced his agreement all the same.

Rael turned and looked out across the rolling hills leading down to the fields to the south, before The Sliver, the great icy river cleaving through the Dale that fed into Lake Glasswater on the other side of Trelling's Rest. He didn't know just what this meant, but the connections of the strange sorcery, the runes, and the group of men trying to kill him left him with a deep sense of unease he couldn't ignore.

"I want the House guard tripled. Do whatever must be done to make it happen," he said quietly.

Selm stared at him for a moment with worry creasing his brow. "It will be done, Milord."

"Very good. That is all. For now."

"Milord?"

Rael turned to face his advisor. "Yes, Selm?"

The Halfling didn't try to hide the fear in his eyes. "They're going to come back for you, aren't they?"

Rael's handsome face twisted with anger and determination. "Not if I come for them first."

***

"Sil," Cook said loudly, and snapped her fingers just below Silmaria's nose.

Silmaria flinched and shook herself from her distracted revelry. "Sorry, Cookie. I was worlds away."

"You don't say?" Cook returned sarcastically, eyeing her friend dubiously. "Dinner's been done, I've finished setting up for tomorrow morning, the other help have gone to bed, and you're standing there stirring the soup to death."

Silmaria looked down at the very-well-stirred soup and shook her head. She was too distracted and melancholy even to laugh. She sighed softly, tapped the ladle on the side of the hefty black kettle, and hung the utensil on the rack to her left. She wiped her hands on a nearby cloth, then reached up to undo the pins holding her hair up in a bundle atop her head. The thick black curls fell in a tumble of silken darkness down her shoulders and her back. The Gnari girl ran her fingers in frustration through her hair, not caring that it was slightly damp with sweat from the heat of the kitchen.

"I haven't been very good company today," she admitted softly.

"No shit! You've been about as cheerful as a boil on my arse," Cook returned, but her tone was teasingly jovial. Silmaria tried to smile, and failed miserably.

Cooks look changed briefly to a look of genuine concern before settling on a stern, no-nonsense matronly expression. She crossed her arms over her hefty bosom and fixed Silmaria with her look. "Alright, out with it, Sil. You've been moping around like a wounded thing for three days now. The girls that share your quarters say you've been crying at night. All your fire's gone out. By the Twelve, what is wrong with you?"

Briefly, Silmaria considered insisting nothing was wrong, then quickly discarded the notion. Cook knew her too well, and she would poke and prod and wheedle her until she inevitably gave in and opened up.

"I'm really confused, and sad, and angry, and...gods, Cook, I don't know. I'm going through just about every emotion I can think of lately, and most of them aren't good ones."

"Uh-huh. And this is about...?" Cook ventured, letting Silmaria fill in.

Silmaria looked away and swallowed softly. She leaned against the counter and her tail beat softly against the wood. "You know I didn't...don't...like Lord Rael."

"Well, you didn't exactly make much secret about it. Hell, I'd be surprised if the man himself didn't know it by now. Everyone else does. And that, by the way, is not earning you any friends, and has probably cost you some besides."

"I don't care about having any friends," Silmaria said distractedly, just because she always said as much. "And he does know already."

"Does he, now?" Cook said as her brows raised.

"Yes. I told him as much."

"Silmaria!" Cook practically screamed in outrage.

"He asked!" Silmaria protested. "He did. He asked me outright if I didn't like him. What was I to do? Lie?"

"Of course you were supposed to lie, you idiot!"

"Lying to a Noble is a punishable offense," Silmaria reminded her friend.

"So's not groveling or licking their boots properly, but I don't see you doing that!"

"It doesn't matter," Silmaria insisted. "He asked, and I told him the truth."

Cook let out a heavy sigh. "How deep in shit are you?"

"It's not like that," the Gnari girl shook her head, sending her dark locks swishing. "I'm not being punished or reprimanded. He asked me why I disliked him. I told him that, too. And now..."

"Now? Now what?" Cook pressed curiously.

Silmaria rubbed her face tiredly, trying to hide the confliction warring inside her. Now what, indeed?

She told Cook everything. Her anger and distrust of the young Nobleman and just how deeps the roots of those feelings went. How her anger and outrage and heartbreak and rage had all comingled and festered until she'd been nearly unable to even think reasonably where Lord Rael was concerned. How she'd wished he would just disappear, no matter how much good he was doing for her and her fellows. And then their talk last night, and the letter from Master Edwin.

At last, she was faced with proof that much of the wrong she'd blamed him for was unfounded. His callous and insensitive absence from the House when Master Edwin was sick and dying, missing his own father's funeral and burial, the long delay in his returning home...it all made so much more sense now after reading that letter. And now she didn't know how to cling to her anger anymore. And without anger, that left her with...what?

"I don't even know how to feel anymore," Silmaria ended lamely, tossing her hands in frustration.

"Wrong, maybe?"

"Cook!" Silmaria complained.

"Well it's the truth!" Cook laughed, smiling. "You're struggling with this so heavily because, underneath all the other emotional muck I'm sure you're feeling...the rub of it remains, you were wrong. You piled all these bad feelings and pain at Lord Rael's feet, because you needed him for that. You were hurt when we lost Lord Edwin. Probably more than any of us. I get that, Silmaria. I don't know why it hurt you so bad, and I don't need to. But it did. And you didn't know how to cope. So you took a lot of the bad feelings and issues wrapped up in all that, and saw Lord Rael, not there loving his Da the way you did, and you put it on him because it was easier. How'm I doing so far?"

Silmaria opened her mouth, then shut it, and opened and shut it again. Why the hell was Cook saying all this? It was mortifying, and worse, she realized, it was damned right. Unable to find the words, Silmaria finally gave a curt nod.

"Thought so," Cook nodded in a way that was more sympathetic than smug.

Silmaria took a deep breath and gave her friend a plaintive look. "So what do I do? It's too much. I was so wrong about him. I thought he was the lowest bastard to walk the earth, and really, he loved Master Edwin. In his way. A way Master Edwin understood, even. He's...a good man. I judged him wrongly. I don't know how to face him after all this."

The older Human woman smiled and crossed the distance to give her young friend a hug, because the Gnari girl looked like she desperately needed one right then. "Oh, come on, it's not so bad. It's not like you spit in his tea or anything."

Cook then pushed her back, holding her at arm's length as she looked at Silmaria with a suspicious expression. "You didn't spit in his tea, did you?"

"No!" Silmaria said vehemently, then, despite the jumble going on in her heart and her head, she gave a small, begrudging smile.

"Then Elard's sack, girl, just apologize to the man! Tell him you were wrong and you're sorry! He's been a reasonable and good sort so far, and seems to have taken a shining to you. He'll understand, I'd bet my ovens on it."

"You think so?" Silmaria ventured after a few moments of thought.

"Now I wouldn't be jesting about my ovens if I didn't, would I?" Cook asked in a serious tone.

Silmaria laughed at last, and when she smiled again it was a sincere and full smile. She hugged the bigger woman tightly and when she hopped back, she felt lighter. She still had some murky feelings to deal with; clearly, she'd never quite gotten over Master Edwin's death. She also had to finish sorting out the blame and guilt she'd piled onto Lord Rael, and see how she truly felt about the man when all that was cleared away. But, for all that, she felt worlds better. Cook gave her a bit of direction and clarity, if nothing else. The rest she could work through herself.

"I think you should be a counselor instead of a Cook, you know," Silmaria jested with a smile. "You always know how to figure things out."

Cook snorted and rolled her eyes. "To the hells with that. It's enough making sure there's food in a Lord's belly and his people are fed. Having to poke around in a Noble's head, and speak politely about it while I'm at it? Like sorting out your head without cursing you up one end and down the other isn't hard enough! I'd be lynched my first week on the job!"

"A week is a little generous, don't you think?"

Cook poked her finger at her laughing friend's face. "Hush your loose lips!"

"Loose? I've always been told my lips feel quite tight, all of them in fact," Silmaria returned saucily.

"Slut!"

"Whore!"

Silmaria burst from the kitchen and bolted down the hall on quick, padding feet, laughing all the way as Cook half-heartedly threw kitchenware after her.

***

It was three days after the attack before Rael was able to safely slip away from the Manor. It was a risky move, for him and his people both, but he had to have answers. He wouldn't sit and wait quietly for the bastards to come for him in his home. Not again. If he was ever going to find out who these assassins were, the runes were his only hope.

And he had one lead on where he could find out what those runes meant.

He raced through the back streets and byways in Trelling's Rest, ignoring the peasants and paupers he nearly tripped on and bowled over. He had no time or patience left; every moment could be vital, every second a second closer to another assault on his home. All the Nobleman's attention was bent on reaching Mithayu's shop and pressing the old man for every scrap of information he knew.

His haste was for naught.

Rael barreled into the shop in a rush. There was no Mithayu. There was no shop.

The room was utterly empty. Not a shelf, or a sheet of parchment, or a single oddity or trinket or charm remained. Nothing but four plain walls and open, uncluttered space.

Every last sign of the Sorcerer had been erased as if he'd never been.

***

The better part of three weeks had passed since the attack on the manor, and life at House IronWing was at last returning to some semblance of normal. The serving folk had finally started to feel comfortable again and stopped looking over their shoulder as if doom would descend on them all at any moment. Security was tighter around the Manor now with the new guards, but after the violence they'd seen, no one seemed to mind overmuch.

For his part, Lord Rael had become something of a recluse. He emerged from his chambers, or the study, to attend to his official duties, conversing and planning with Selm and checking on the state of his holdings, the guard, and any other matters that required his attention. Then he would quickly spirit away to be alone. He left strict orders not to be disturbed unless in case of dire emergency.

Which left Silmaria frustrated and impatient. It had taken her a few days after her enlightening talk with Cook, but finally she'd gotten her feelings sorted out and gathered her courage. And just as she decided to seek Lord Rael out to speak with him, he'd ordered everyone away.

It was a break in the man's character and habit, to be sure; always before, Lord Rael had welcomed audiences and discussion with his serving folk and staff and made it plain that he was approachable. He'd been a man of bustle and activity, seeming to enjoy his people, his House, and his lands. He put sincere effort into making his House prosper once more. He'd been an encouraging, steadying force, his serious but open face seen everywhere his people went. These days, he was hardly glimpsed at all.

The Gnari girl swallowed her disappointment. The time would come, or it wouldn't. There was nothing she could do but wait.

In the meanwhile, her duties continued as usual. She found herself one day in the rooms Lirena had converted to a makeshift infirmary. It was a fine day, the sun shining outside and the air cold and crisp and fresh, a rare bright winter day. Silmaria threw open the shutters on the single window to the room, letting in the sunshine and cool air to chase away some of the closed stuffiness of the room. The shift in the room was immediate and refreshing.

Lirena was tending to other duties, of what nature Silmaria wasn't sure, so the Gnari girl had come down to the infirmary to oversee and tend to Tomas.

Three weeks under Lirena's careful tending had done Tomas a world of good. The man was still weak, spending the vast majority of his time in bed, but he could rise and walk a short way with some guidance and assistance to be sure he didn't have a dizzy spell and fall. He'd lost a good deal of weight after a heavy fever in the first week.

But he would live. He'd started to slowly put weight back on, and in time he may even be strong again. His right arm would never be fully whole; the damage had been too great. It would retain rudimental function, but it would never have the range or strength of his left arm. He would bear the scars for his brush with death for the rest of his days, the one to his scalp and face especially. It ran from his forehead down the right side of his face to the middle of his cheek, just missing his eye.

Aside from some self-depreciation, Tomas was handling his injury and subsequent recovery well enough. He had an occasional bleak moment, but they passed, and he was overall an easy and cooperative patient, who was more than anything starved for news.

"I hear Lord Rael has increased the guard. Has a bunch of sell swords and old soldiering types keeping us safe."

Silmaria looked up at him from where she was removing the dressing on his chest, and shrugged. "So it seems. I don't really pay too close an attention to the ins and outs of the guards. It's a bit over my head."

"Seems like since the attack, everyone's pretty concerned with exactly what's going on with the guard these days," Tomas grunted.

"I suppose," Silmaria muttered. She used a clean cloth and brushed some of the salve Lirena had been applying to the wound onto Tomas's chest. The tissue there was healing nicely, a good scar already forming. "Some of the girls were talking about it the other day. Seems like one of the new men got a bit roudy. They said Lord Rael straightened him out. Everything's been smooth since then."

Tomas chuckled softly. Silmaria decided to leave his chest open to air for awhile, and busied herself putting away various supplies. Tomas stretched, winced slightly, and laid back. "Lirena told me the same. I don't much like new guardsmen, especially if they're causing a stir already. But if anyone will keep a garrison in line, it'd be Lord Rael."

"Yeah," Silmaria nodded with a rueful smile. "Especially if they know what he can do to a man. I'd hate to be the one to set him off."

Tomas grinned lightly and nodded. "Damnedest thing I've ever seen. He fought like a force of nature. I'd heard the stories, mind you... but I figured, with his leg and all, his war waging days were over."

Silmaria frowned and her brows furrowed pensively. "I'd wondered myself what that was about. He hasn't used his walking stick since then. He walks completely normally. No limp or anything. I doubt the gods suddenly touched him and made his leg whole in our hour of need. He must have been faking the whole time. I just haven't figured out why."

Tomas shrugged. His injured shoulder didn't move quite as well as the other. "Who can say? I can only think he had a good reason for it. I've only known him about as well as you, but Lord Rael is a good man. And an honest one too, for the most part. If he was pretending to have a bum leg, he had a purpose behind it."

"I guess," Silmaria nodded. She pulled up a stool and sat beside Tomas's bed, crossed her slender legs, and smoothed her skirts down. "I've already judged him harshly, and for no reason it turns out. So now I'm trying very hard to give him the benefit of the doubt."

Tomas's look turned thoughtful. "How is he? I've not heard much word on our Lord since the attack, and I know he took some injury."

"He's fine as far as the injury stands. I think," Silmaria added. "I tended his wounds after the battle. They seemed to be in good shape and I did my best to mend him right. I haven't seen him since that night...but from all I've heard, he's healthy and well. But not very sociable, apparently."