#reschauld

“So I treat you better than a dog,” Reina murmured dryly. “How flattering to know your bar is set so high.” “I think it is,” Reschauld replied, unfazed. “Still, you don’t see. This has been the sum of my days. I have always been… lesser. Even welcomed in the house of the Revenhjar, even given the honor of being their advisor. Can you imagine, I’d never known someone to look at me as an equal before I met Arjes? So much of my life, spent looked down upon and detested. Frankly, I got used to it. “And you shocked me utterly, Reinaselle.” He caught her by surprise, he knew; her fingers clenched and unclenched around the book on her knees, that was all. No one ever used her full name, but the time seemed opportune, and it flowed easily off his tongue. Reschauld loved to say her name. “You—the ward of the High Presider—flirting with me! Not with nervous glances at your peers, but boldly. Out in the open, with obvious—and, if I do say, unladylike—abandon for anyone else’s opinion.” A fine tremor was shivering up his spine, but Reschauld pressed on. “No one here has treated me with disrespect, no one has looked down their nose at me—but you… you’ve gone further. Chrysanthe shied away long before seeing the depth of me that you demand. And I do mean demand—you’re the most demanding person I know. You won’t accept any less than all of me, and I can’t help but give it to you. “At first, I expected you to hold me at arm’s length. It would have only been natural—I wouldn’t have even thought it strange.” Reschauld paused—not a hesitation, just a moment to look into her eyes and make sure she was listening. It might kill him to say all this a second time. “I think my bar is set higher than even I realized, but I doubt it could ever stop you. I think you could step over any resistance I ever put up like a line of stones. You’ve done the one thing I cannot deny—every time you look at me, I see it. I am enough. I am good enough, I am strong enough, I am noble enough. Smart enough. Loyal enough. Whatever. It’s in your eyes whenever I see you, and I’ll never stop looking for it—I never realized how much I needed it. To you, I am enough. And that is a truly high bar that I have set.”

Arjes ven Refurn was sitting up, propped between barrels of rye, dozing. There were no passenger cabins on the Harvest Moon, of course, and the sailors had made no secret that they did not wish to share sleeping quarters with three strangers. The feeling was mutual; no one really knew where Meg went to sleep at night (or if she slept at all; no one had ever witnessed such a thing), but the two men had made themselves comfortable in the hold—in a storage room on the gallery. This didn’t appear to be a normal place for cargo; at a glance, it seemed that upon loading the greater holds, just a few barrels wouldn’t quite fit, and had ended up socked away here. In any case, it was private, and secure enough. As Arjes dozed under the yellow glow of a glass chemical lamp, the door swept open as silently as if on a breeze; the knob hadn’t made so much as a whine when turned. It shut again with not a breath of a noise. Amused, Reschauld stole closer to Arjes and leaned on a barrel beside him. “Waiting for someone?” Half this small sentence was drowned out by Arjes’ cry of surprise. He looked around wildly, finally fixing on Reschauld in exasperation. “Is there another entrance in here? I’ve been sitting here watching this door for an hour, how did you get back in this room?” “Sorcery,” Reschauld answered dryly. He pulled a little glass disc out of his pocket; he’d had this meddler’s lamp for decades, and still it shone stubbornly when activated. Jenny had been nagging him to make or buy a new one, but Reschauld had never bothered to. “And how could you have been up watching the door for an hour? I’ve only been out for twenty minutes, if that.” Reschauld drew forth a journal and some papers from within his coat. “What are those?” “Needle and thread. I’m going to work on my cross-stitch.” Arjes twisted his lips in a scowl. “Don’t blame it on me when they throw us overboard.” Reschauld leveled a droll glare at him. “The difference between your mischief and mine is that people notice when you make trouble. I could rob them all blind and paint the word ‘scurvy’ on all their ballsacks without anyone noticing. They’d probably hang us on the prow by our toes if you so much as took an extra corn chip at breakfast.”

A ship in the night is a creature most serene. True, there are nights upon the sea where the wind thrashes, the waves accost, the spit of rain and spray blinds even the most weathered sailor. There are nights of fear, when no one is certain that the dawn will draw forth upon their vessel still intact. But in the gentle heart of a quiet night, with the ocean on all sides and the horizon an undisturbed, beckoning bough upon which rests the edge of the sky, a man could breathe freely. The Harvest Moon was a peaceful vessel, a relatively small galleon with burgeoning holds of goods (mostly grains) that would travel between the Allied Kingdoms and the rest of the known world. The Allied Navy was adept at the scrubbing out of pirates, and beyond their reach, the Lords of the South had a firm grip upon the sea rats; the Harvest Moon’s captain rarely worried about being bothered by anything but unruly winter storms. Tonight, he slept peacefully in the captain’s cabin. For the chamber of the captain, it was modest; still, he was the only man on the ship given his own private room, and did not restrict himself to the limited comforts of a standard bunk. His door had been locked; Captain Jormund had a queasy feeling about these passengers, these men and the scrappy little she-creature with them. On the open water, a man felt free, but also vulnerable, and outsiders were always disquieting to himself and his crew. Yes, he had agreed to take them to the State City; Jormund was no patriot to Fjordestat or their High Presider. And the pay had been exquisite. Still… He turned over in his sleep, rocked by the vast arms of the ocean he so loved. Meg the Magpie was a known associate of smugglers and sneaks. Jormund had only seen her a few times, and disliked having her near his goods. He’d told his crew to keep an eye on her at all times. But the two men were a different matter… A man--a captain--had to trust his gut, at times, and listen to the whisper of intuition when it spoke. Captain Jormund had accepted their money and their presence, but no measure of gold could erase the feeling in his bones, the coldness, a chill that reached down through his heart like a wraith. He felt it whenever the smaller one was near. It struck like a hammer whenever Jormund met the man’s near-black eyes. Even now, dreaming of this uneasy feeling, Captain Jormund pulled his sheets nearer and slipped a hand alongside his mattress, where a curved sword rested between his bed and the cabin wall. Maybe it was just the superstition of an old sailor. Maybe it was the stories his grandfather had told him by the fireside, fifty-odd years past. As agitated as he was, the captain still didn’t hear his door click gently open, then close mere minutes later.

Reschauld wasn’t old, yet. Autumn in the Seaside Castle was a tumultuous time. The preparations of a castle of such a size for the grueling winter months were the work of virtually half the year. The hay, alone, to feed the stables’ famed thousand horses, not to mention the scores of dairy cows, the hundred or more donkeys and asses, and the myriad goats that were kept in the castle’s lower levels was the work of a small army to store and portion. No wonder the castle chamberlain appeared to not have slept since 502. Just as troubling were the late-summer storms that hurled whipping rain and ravenous wind against the castle walls, rattling windows and light sleepers, pushing the thoroughly-tested strength of the stone floors until even the hardiest soul in the keep might have begun to doubt the castle’s durability. By the time these storms blew themselves out, winter would begin and bring with it nights that grew cooler and days that grew shorter. And pain in his hands. Reschauld stubbornly pressed on, meticulously penning the final paragraph of his letter of congratulations to the Lord Fenegret and the Lady Gretielle on their recent marriage. Actually, it was not his letter. The newlywed nobles likely wouldn’t recognize his face, let alone his name. This letter was from Lady Revenhjar, Reschauld’s sworn liege, and her indisposed husband. Reschauld’s aching fingers paused over the final “honorable” the message was to contain. Lord Revenhjar had always preferred to write his own personal congratulations and consolations and dispatches of this type. Official letters, summons, replies to inquiries, any communication about business and the running of his and his wife’s lands, he would have not hesitated to assign the writing to someone else. But personal letters, even to people he did not know well, the Lord had always taken the time to write in his own hand. The fire in the grate lapped against the soot-smeared marble of the fireplace. Its warmth flowed out across the study, over the thick Yvella rug dyed in their famous twisting patterns and the heavy old bookcases packed to bursting with books and scrolls, old and new, mostly read and kept within easy reach. Shadows filled the space, from the gaping blackness of the hearth’s enormous mantel to the tiny chiseled patterns in the wood of the furniture around him and made Reschauld’s world seem deeper, perhaps even darker, than it appeared under sunlight. Beside him burned a little brazier fed with coals from his fireplace, and when Reschauld had written the last letter of the last word and forged his Lady’s signature with a hand that had been practicing for decades, sprinkled the wet ink with sand and set the parchment out to dry, he finally turned to the wonderful heat source and held his sore bones near it. Absently, he tugged at the snug wrist of his sleeves, ensuring his arms were fully covered. The heat radiated, melted into his skin like liquid and erased the creaking pain between his fingerbones. There was a knock on the door and Reschauld quite nearly leapt out of his skin. He snatched his hands back from the brazier and peered over his spectacles at the open door to his study.  Without ceremony, as usual, in strode his life’s loudest occupant and his best friend of over twenty years.

Silence fell, and Reschauld eyed Tabatha warily. Her little face was purple, now, and staring off into nothing. “Not again,” Reschauld darted out from behind his desk to grab her by the shoulders before she could topple over. She wasn’t imbalanced this time, not like on the ship, and she didn’t lean one way or the other. Tabatha just sat there as if she were daydreaming, rubbing her fingers together as if distracted. The episode continued for an agonizingly long time; Reschauld had failed to write to the Revenhjar yet, but he reminded himself desperately to mention these lapses tonight, when he sent them a letter to inform them of the party’s safe arrival. Minutes seemed to pass, and then, all at once, she blinked and the raging little Revenhjar terror was back. Tabatha opened her mouth to scream. Reschauld didn’t remember deciding to lock his hand over her mouth, but that’s what he did. Tabatha’s shock was obvious; her big, dark eyes were wide over his fingers, then black with furious hate. She rocked violently in the chair, swinging at his face and clawing at his hand. “Tabatha, I need you to listen,” Reschauld told her calmly. Of course, she ignored him. Reschauld tried again. “Tabatha.” Her whole little body was flailing, now, fighting like a trapped animal. Reschauld lost his patience and shook her like a doll. “Tabatha! Don’t you understand?! You just had some kind of a stroke or fainting spell and I can’t even tell you about it because you won’t listen!” She was trying to bite his hand, now, but at least she’d stopped flailing. Reschauld caught the back of her head in his other hand and held her still. Tears were welling up in her eyes. Reschauld snatched his hands away. “I’m not going to stop,” he told her, still crouched before her chair. “I’m not going to let you do whatever you like. I’m not your mother. I can’t even help you because you just won’t listen. We aren’t going to keep going this way.” Tabatha’s face was red as a beet, and a vein in her forehead was pulsing, amusingly similar to the vein the sometimes stood out from Lady Revenhjar’s own temple. Like mother, like daughter. “Do you remember anything?” Reschauld asked slowly. He waited for her to answer, which she did not do. “Do you feel sick? Or dizzy?” Tabatha didn’t reply, but neither did she scream in his face. But then, she was panting like a boar on a warpath, sitting there like a tiny coil of mad springs, ready to shoot in any direction. Reschauld stood and returned to his desk. He put his optics back on and opened a book, although his head groaned like creaking gears. “If you don’t want to work on your numbers fine. But you’re not going anywhere—we’ll sit here all afternoon, if you want, just you and me.”

The preparations for their run that night were in full swing, quietly rolling against the edges of town like lapping waves on the shore. Reschauld had slipped away hours ago. If Arjes was half as sneaky, he would have, also, but these young rebels clung to the older and more experienced fighters like ducklings learning to swim. Something about the whole arrangement didn’t sit well with Arjes, but he’d be lost to place it. Like a chiming bell beneath the roar of drums and shouts—Arjes simply couldn’t get a hold of it. Even now, as he climbed the inn’s rattling and creaking stairs, it eluded comprehension. It should have satisfied him enough to know that Reschauld had it handled—Reschauld always had these things handled—but that Jerne upstart was going to cause problems. He’d been twittering around like a maniac all day, and it took a great deal of restraint on Arjes’ part not to punch him in the jaw to shut him up for a few minutes. The kid was so small, a punch from Arjes would likely knock him flat, just like when he’d first sparred with Reschauld. He’d been, and remained, a lightweight also. Arjes opened the door to their room at the inn with every intention of telling Reschauld exactly this. All thoughts of teasing—in fact, all thought in general—puffed out when he saw his oldest friend slumped over in the spindly wooden chair at the far end of the room. His eyes were rolled back. His face was white. A reddish bottle and a brown glass vial sat open on the table in front of him.

EK Rochford

“Living,” Reschauld spat. “Living, Arjes. Going about my days, one after the other. Taking their orders. Teaching the girls. Waking up, working, going to bed. Repeating. Gods, going back to being Reschauld the Advisor. I don’t even know who I fucking am anymore. And all of it, knowing she’s… knowing I’ll never…” Tears were welling up in Reschauld’s eyes, now. “Gods, Arjes…! He offered me everything! I could have been her husband now—! What do I care about the Allied Kingdoms or Lord and Lady Revenhjar or King fucking Theo—Reina was all I wanted, and I almost had her!” Sobs choked out his words. “We could’ve been nobles—or we could have lived in—in a farmhouse. She could have—kept me chained up by the f-fireplace and it would have—been enough!” Reschauld’s empty stare collapsed in grief. “Why?! She w-was my—h-home, Arjes! I would—have done—anything—almost anything—just—” Arjes watched helplessly as Reschauld folded under the weight, leaning heavily on the rigging and shaking as if he felt the cold for the first time.