The Keeper
680 Words
The Keeper~
Sethlyan Callan
Glenayre, Aleron
“I wanted Glenayre and my independence. I got a keeper and a wife.”
Seth paced before the window in Rogart’s study. Your study now.
The afternoon sun warmed its beveled panes and painted the paneling a honeyed gold. A slender finger of sunlight stirred the aurello in his cup until its fiery glow matched the burn it sent down his throat.
Callans knew cattle, and they knew aurello whiskey. A barrel with the Black Hawk brand fetched a premium price in any port, and Rogart had poured his best to toast Seth’s betrothal.
“It’s humiliating, Da. I’m a grown man, about to be wed. You’re giving me Glenayre, and the Iverachs want to give me a keeper.”
Rogart laughed. “The Fire Hawk squawks at having his wings clipped.”
Seth tossed back the aurello and set his cup on Rogart’s desk. Your desk now.
“Call me that again, and I’ll have to call you out,” he said. “And that would be a shame because I’m the better sword, and I’ve grown accustomed to having you around.”
“Struggling with fame, little brother?”
“There is no fame. Just one daft daor prattling on about overblown tavern tales.”
“Tales with a grain of truth.” Lord Symon leaned back behind the desk and propped his boots beside Seth’s cup. “Enough truth that Taw wants you both kept away from interesting things until the wedding.”
“Lord Lyall agreed to watch Gaven. Why can’t you do the same?”
“Because Lyall is staying at Dundarien. Gaven won’t be left alone before the ceremony. You, on the other hand, will.”
It had been the most debated point in the negotiations. The Rhi’Iverach insisted his sisters would live near one another. Of all the potential Callan and Buchanan estates, the two closest were Dundarien and Glenayre, less than a day’s ride apart and a light journey through a pass in the Redmists.
Establishing Gaven at Dundarien was straightforward enough. Lord Lyall would continue splitting time between the Dundarien and Buchanell estates, as he had for years. Lyall’s eldest son Fergus would remain Lord of Buchanell. Gaven would be acting Lord of Dundarien when his father was away.
Getting Seth settled took more maneuvering. Glenayre was one of the smaller Callan holdings, a third the size of Windermere, and had been Rogart’s since he married Onora a decade ago. But with six children and counting, they’d outgrown the place. Symon decided Rogart would move to Windermere, and he and Mum would relocate to Eyton Hall. It was closer to his clan business with Chief Tavish and near Falkender Road, the main thoroughfare traversing the heart of Innis from north to south.
Not that Seth had argument with his father’s choices. He loved Glenayre. He always had.
“Rogart transitions Glenayre to you then joins his wife and brood in Windermere, and your mother and I get settled at Eyton. All that shuffling about leaves you here alone until we return to Dundarien for the wedding.”
“You could come to Windermere with me,” said Rogart. “But if you stay here, you’re stuck with your Iverach chaperone.”
“I don’t need a chaperone. I’m not some irresponsible boy.”
“You were an irresponsible boy,” his father waved off his protest. “Too many years spent gallivanting about, free as you please. At your age, Rogart was already managing Glenayre and had a child on the way.”
“Might’ve been awkward if I’d shown up demanding Rogart give me my turn at his estate.”
“Watch yourself.” Symon slid his heels off the desk. “You are my son. I expect you to manage this estate competently and do credit to the Callan name. You will also swallow your pride and respect the contract I struck with the Rhi’Iverach. I want this alliance.”
Arguing was wasted breath. Seth gritted his teeth and assumed his role as the dutiful spare.
“I’ll do my part, Da.”
“In a month, the nene is to escort you and Gaven to Monaughty to meet the Iverach sisters. In the meantime, you will accept his company and treat him with courtesy.”
“I’ll smile politely. But how do you know if you’ve offended a mute?”
“If he takes the top off your head with his musket, you offended him,” said Rogart.
“He isn’t a true mute,” said Symon. “He can speak. Chooses not to. A vow of silence or some such nonsense. Who knows with a nene?”
“Half nene,” said Seth.
“And all bastard. Taw says his name is Ashlon, in case you’re tempted to engage him with your witty conversation.”
Chapter 11
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