Bringing Gifts
1320 Words
Bringing Gifts~
Brynmohr o’Berwyn
Twelvestones
King Berwyn of the Firstborn reclined in an overstuffed bed, propped upright by pillows. He was awake and taking his tea. The old gwynwulf that was his constant companion stretched out the full length of the bed. She opened one perfunctory yellow eye at Brynmohr’s approach and gave a half-hearted snarl.
Brynmohr scratched her head and pulled another blanket up over his father’s legs.
“Stop fussing over me. Why keep servants if you do their work for them?”
“You’re cranky today, Your Majesty.”
“Council all seems to think I’m daft now. I may not sit the throne, but I am still the blasted king. The plans are still in motion?”
King Berwyn, having seen two hundred and eighteen years, was feeble and fading. He tasked Brynmohr with furthering his plans and House Urion’s mission of returning the land of Shandalar to its rightful heirs, the land men had claimed and named Rhynn, then lost to Joren the Conqueror as Innis. As the first people to walk the earth, nenes considered its dominion their birthright. As the proud remnants of the nene ruling class, the Firstborn were meant to rule over all latecomers, be they Aurel or Surdisi or any other.
But nenes would never be able to defeat men in war. Men bred faster. Men were builders, and their castles were strong.
Brynmohr supposed his father’s plan was a decent one, as plans went. Turn men’s mistrust of one another against them. Goad them into destroying themselves. Reclaim the land they’d stolen. The plan would fail, of course, and nenes would continue fading away. There’d been a time when his father’s dreams stoked Brynmohr’s pride. Now, he just told the old nene what he wanted to hear.
“King Walter signed the proclamation,” said Brynmohr. “It recognizes the agreed upon boundaries. Forty square miles of our own on Lake Jura, from the Valley of Urion north to the foothills of the Cloudpeaks. Names us the Realm of the Firstborn.”
“Too little land,” said Berwyn. “Iverachs crowding us on one side, Alerons on the other. No access to the sea.”
“The proclamation names you Prince of the Firstborn and grants us autonomy for as long as we swear fealty to the King of Innis and pay his taxes.”
“Coin. That’s all we are to them. I’m a king, not a prince,” his father grumbled. “Firstborn ruled this land long before men could even wipe their arses.”
Brynmohr sat back and let him vent.
“Calls us the Firstborn. Damned good of them to admit it,” muttered Berwyn.
Why wouldn’t they? Nenes were few and Firstborn fewer still.
“Nenes climbed up out of the earth. Men fell from the sky. It takes more sense to climb than to fall.”
“Yes, Father.”
The Firstborn were a curiosity. A people set apart and herded into a corner. Dragons of Urion caged in a zoo.
“The plans are still in motion?” his father asked yet again.
“Moving ahead. As you planned.” Brynmohr gave his father a brisk kiss on the forehead. “I’ll let you rest.”
“Rest. That’s all I do. Tell my granddaughter to visit me.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Never did approve of you making her mother consort. Scandalous. Almost lost the Fervent over a blasted woman.”
“Almost, but in the end, none dared challenge me,” said Brynmohr. “I am my father’s son.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.” Berwyn wagged a bony finger. “You’ve done well with Madelyn. She hasn’t come in to see me in a while. Tell her to visit me.”
“Yes, Father.”
Brynmohr closed the door. Master Cree was waiting outside. The last leaf I want to fall in my path.
He kept walking, giving the chief steward of Twelvestones no choice but to step aside. Never one to take a hint, Cree tottered after him.
“How was His Majesty today?” Cree huffed to keep up.
“Fine. He only repeated himself twice. Most of his tea made it into his mouth instead of down his chin.”
“Prince Brynmohr, you are speaking of our king.”
Brynmohr spun, and Cree skidded to a halt.
“Master Cree, I find visits with my dying father trying enough without you accosting me as I leave him.” He pointed. “Go. Now. I don’t care where so long as you are not here pestering me with inane questions.”
“Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace.” Cree bowed as low as his old bones allowed. “It was thoughtless of me.”
“Yes, it was.” Brynmohr resumed his climb out of the heart of the ancient hill.
Castle Twelvestones crouched atop a terraced hillfort, the largest of its kind left in Innis, since the days the Firstborn ruled Shandalar. A broad black moat encircled the lower terrace. Deep, spiked pits delineated the upper two. Few outsiders knew the extent of the underground passages, catacombs, and chambers that honeycombed the hill beneath the ivory towers.
Brynmohr drew comfort from the underground passages. The earthy smell of the lower levels meant safety. He trailed his fingers along the smooth clay walls. The crunch of gravel underfoot stirred memories from when he was a boy, exploring every inch of the hollow hill.
Was I ever that boy?
Suddenly, he wanted to be up, out of the ground, feeling the sun on his face. She would be up there, waiting for him.
# # #
He found her in the rose garden beneath the king’s chambers they shared. The late afternoon sun set her auburn hair aglow. He held back, watching as she brought rebellious rose bushes into submission with her snips.
He would age more slowly than the beautiful woman humming in her garden. But nenes had teas for almost any need, including one to slow the outward signs of aging. Jenna set aside a basket of roses and pulled off her gloves.
She knows I am here.
Somehow, Jenna was always waiting for him. He was determined to offer her a surprise this once. He stepped into the sunlight, and she greeted him.
“Welcome home, Your Grace.” She kissed his lips. “Have you eaten?”
“Not hungry. I just came from Father.”
Being wiser than Master Cree, she let it be.
“Where is Madelyn?”
“Out riding,” she said. “She started lessons with your Horsemaster.”
“Twelvestones has a Horsemaster?”
“So he titles himself. You Firstborn are ever the pretentious lot.”
“She’s chaperoned?”
“Abundantly so,” she said. “Her friend Lilyan went with her. Dara rode along and took a guardsman. Counting the Horsemaster and stablehands, I’d say she’s well attended.”
“It takes little to pull Daranuthan from his studies,” he said. “Charlotte?”
“Down for her nap.”
He plucked a rose from her basket. Delicate wine-purple petals contrasted a pristine white center. The exquisite bloom came from a weak plant grafted onto stronger rootstock. Once the graft took, shoots from the hardy rootstock were pruned away, leaving only the prized beauty’s stems to bloom. But the robust rootstock remained determined to reassert itself, giving his lover a constant battle in her garden.
He knocked away the thorns with his thumb and offered her the clove-scented bloom.
“A gift and a surprise. Which will you have first?”
“So generous today.” She sniffed the rose. “You may ply me with shiny baubles first.”
“A sleight of hand and…” He curled his wrist and opened his hand. “You are captured by my magic.”
“Oh, Bryn, it’s lovely,” she said, taking the pendant. The cameo bore her profile and a single rose like the one she held. “Exquisite. How did you manage it?”
“An artisan owed me a debt,” he said. “I guided him in the sketch. It’s a good likeness, I think.”
“You’d never settle for less.” She lifted her hair for him to work the clasp. “It’s a sweet gift, dear. Thank you.”
“That leaves the surprise.”
“Let me guess,” she said. “You hired a new Rosemaster.”
“I learned where and when they’re to be married.”
To her credit, she didn’t gape. He’d always admired her poise.
“We can attend unobserved,” he said. “At least get close enough for a look at the men Calum chose for them.”
“The Fervent won’t like me leaving Twelvestones. Glyneth will have something to say about it, surely. And your father—”
“I am regent here. I decide where you can and cannot go,” he snapped. “Not the Fervent, not Cree, and not Glyneth.”
She seemed unconvinced.
“They have no reason to doubt our return,” he said. “We’ll leave Madelyn and Charlotte here. They know we would not abandon them.”
“Can we trust them with the girls?”
“Trust isn’t the word I’d choose. But they know Father dotes on Madelyn. They won’t risk losing favor with him, even in his decline. And they fear me.”
“What about the Dawnguard? The truce?”
“The truce says I won’t interfere or harm them. I intend to do neither.” He brushed her hair over her shoulder and adjusted the cameo in the soft dip of her throat. “We will see them wed.”
Let anyone try to stop him.
Chapter 22
- Writer
