Chapter Twelve:
Unhappy Returns
As the sun sank into the West, the County Manor in Chernsburg shone like a jewel. The streets were lined with torches, burning in various shades thanks to the efforts of the local alchemists. Red and blue for House Richfort, orange and purple for An Loch. The City Watch was out in their finest dress uniforms; but their eyes were sharp despite the pomp, particularly where the city streets brought members of both houses in close contact. Everyone who was someone (and many who were not, but thought they were) were making their way to Count Gram's for the welcoming feast.
Gram's earlier anger had given way to general unease. Word from Captain Dumorne had arrived not long ago – no sign of the bandits, but several survivors had been found and would be returning with the Captain's troop in the morning. The only constant thread in all of the stories so far were the vicious canes, and some reports of men in the treelines, wearing bright colors. Meanwhile, both Duke Ralen and Duke Richfort had arrived with their entourages at more or less the same time this morning. So far no scuffles of any kind had been reported – indeed, the An Loch contingent had been remarkably polite, even raising toasts to the future of the alliance at several taverns around town and buying rounds for the Richforts. Rather than soothing his churning gut, this news soured Gram all the more. Fights made sense, toasts most certainly did not.
To further stir the pot, the Gram's son, Alayn, had accompanied the Richfort retinue in from Chrysopolis. Alayn had left for the capital several years ago, ostensibly to pursue an academic career with the Kingdom's Bureau of Exploration. In reality, the Count and his son had parted company under much less amicable terms.
Gram had expected Alayn to follow in his footsteps, learning how to lead, inspire, and turn a profit; thereby ensuring the flow of commerce and prosperity both for Chernsburg and for the Kingdom as a whole. But from a very young age, it was clear that Alayn was far more interested in chasing down myths and legends. Gram blamed the tales the lad's governess used to read to him when he was still just a toddler; legends of daemons and gods, heroes and villains. Or perhaps it had been the Church – young Alayn had spent an inordinate amount of time visiting the various religious orders around town, soaking up every bit of lore possible before moving on to the next.
Whatever the case, shortly after Alayn's 16th birthday, the Count and his son had a massive falling out. The city watch had brought Alayn into his father's study, where an incredulous Gram heard a story of unspeakable depravity. The guard had been called out on the behest of the groundskeeper of the local lichyard, just outside the Eastern wall of the city. Some of the tombs and burial mounds in the yard predated the earliest written records of the settlement, and rumor had it that they were haunted by fell beasts and cursed by daemons. Purely peasant superstitions, but still – the older sections of the lichyard were largely avoided except by the groundskeeper, who made regular rounds in the course of his duties. On the morning in question, the groundskeeper noticed that one of the burial mounds had been torn open, with several large stones sprayed out like rotten teeth. Inhuman moans and shrieks the likes of which the poor man had never heard before were issuing from the ragged black maw of the mound, and the groundskeeper quickly took to his heels and summoned the nearest watchmen without delay.
“Sergeant! Oh sir, you must come quick,” the groundskeeper gasped, running up to a trio of city watchmen stationed near the East gate of the city. “'Orrible it is! Just 'orrible!”
The sergeant wondered why all the horrible things in town always seemed to happen just as his shift was about to end, and stood up with a sigh. “What is it, Rodney? Don't tell me someone's gone and murdered one of your tenants.”
Rodney either didn't hear the sergeant's stillborn attempt at humor or chose to ignore it. “Sir, it's one of the old tombs, it is! Some godawful creature is in there right now, a'feastin' on something awful! I 'eard it a'screechin' and a'howlin' down there, I swears I did!”
Being made of firmer stuff, the guardsmen took the groundskeeper's report with a large grain of salt and went to inspect the grave. If anything, they expected to find some poor sod attempting to rob one of the antediluvian tombs – not some horrible beast as the groundskeeper swore was still inside, gnashing its unclean teeth and howling fit to raise the dead. Rodney refused to accompany the guardsmen back to the grave, but provided the watchmen with directions. On arriving, the sergeant in charge confirmed that the mound had been dug into in what appeared to be a very hurried manner, probably during the night before. It was utterly silent, however. He sent the two younger recruits into the ground to investigate (rank hath its privileges, the sergeant thought smugly); but when they returned, they came out bearing only the limp form of young Alayn Gram. The Count's son was still alive and breathing, but seemed to be in the throes of some powerful dream. The sergeant caught muttered references to “darkness”, “Farath”, and “ruins”. Along with the young man, a leather satchel was brought out. The bag contained several candles, flint and steel, and a book which appeared to have been burned from the inside out. The sergeant quickly sent for a covered wagon, swore his men to secrecy and had Alayn returned to the manor posthaste. The groundskeeper was merely told that the tomb was empty, and the graverobbers had likely fled. Alayn regained consciousness shortly before arriving back at the manor, and refused to answer any questions about his purposes in the tomb.
The Count was furious. He knew that despite the watch's best efforts, tongues would eventually wag, and rumors of his son's necrotic misadventure would begin to spread. No amount of railing, pleading, cajoling or demanding was successful in loosening Alayn's tongue regarding what had happened last night. All the young man would say is that the trip was not what it seemed, and that he regretted being caught. Gram threw the burned journal down on the table in front of Alayn, hoping to get at least some reaction from the sullen boy – and indeed, it seemed to work.
“That...” Alayn slowly picked up the book, and leafed through the charred stumps that remained attached to the spine. “Years of study... how...?”
Gram grabbed the book and pitched the sorry remains into the fireplace. Alayn started to rise his feet with a squawk of protest, but the Count slapped him across the face, hard. Alayn collapsed back into his chair, mouth hanging agape as he watched the leather cover blacken and burn in the fire.
“You young, fucking idiot,” Gram snarled, fists clenched at his sides. “You sit there and you listen. You don't want to tell me what you were up to. You can't explain why you were found inside a tomb, surrounded by candles and gods know what else, scaring the locals out of their wits. Fine. But I will NOT allow you do drag this family's name through the mud. Not after all the work your forefathers did to get us where we are today.” Alayn said nothing, only stared at the surface of his father's desk with eyes vacant of emotion.
Gram sat down in his chair, running his hands through his hair pensively. “Maybe a large part of the blame is on me. I let you indulge your interests and didn't take enough of an interest of my own in your upbringing.” He cast a glance at Alayn, but got no response. “Well... what's done is done. But no more.”
Gram picked up a letter from his desk and turned it over in his hands absentmindedly. “You have a fine mind, Alayn. I can only think that life here in our little Chernsburg has penned it in, made it turn down unnatural paths. So... For the good of the family, and the good of your future, I'm sending you off to Chrysopolis.” He tossed the letter down on the desk in front of his son, who looked up in shock.
“Chrysopolis? No, no...! I cannot, not now. I have too many things I must do here, father!” Alayn pushed the letter away, his mouth twisted in revulsion. “I swear to you, I... I was not myself last night. It shall never happen again, but I must not leave!”
“You don't have a choice in the matter, son. With you gone away to the capital, it'll be easier for the locals to forget this little... incident. And I meant what I said – you need a place where you can put your mind to good use, and Chernsburg is simply not it.” The Count pushed the letter back. Alayn made to shove it away again, but Gram seized his wrist in a grip of stone. “This letter will see to it that you are admitted into the Kairos Bureau of Exploration. From what I understand, they're looking for men of your talents to help expand the Kingdom's knowledge about our lands. Expeditions, artifacts, all sorts of things. And best of all,” Gram said in a soft voice, staring into Alayn's narrowed eyes, “you'll be far, far from here. Now. Will you be going willingly, or does the good Captain need to take you to Chrysopolis over his saddle?”
In the end, after a few more halfhearted protests, Alayn had left for the capital. Gram had received regular reports since then on his son's exploits – Alayn had indeed taken to his new career like a fish to water. The leaders of the bureau were amazed at how much Alayn seemed to know about the various nations and civilizations which had once inhabited the land within the borders of Kairos and An Loch. He was always keen to go on the riskiest expeditions, and had an uncanny knack for discovering truly unique artifacts and tomes wherever he went. The last Gram had heard, Alayn was out on an expedition into the far west, out beyond even the borders of An Loch. And yet, here he was, back in Chernsburg for the signing of a peace treaty, nearly three years to the date of his ignoble departure.
Yes indeed, thought Gram, as prepared to welcome the Dukes, his estranged son, and who knew how many spies, assassins and sycophants into his home for the evening, give me a good fight any day.
