Page 47

R ufe’s rooms had changed little in his time away, though Mother had recently replaced his outdated clothing. He’d slept better than expected, a dreamless sleep, and awoke surprised to find the sun high in the sky.

He dressed in a black tunic and trousers, adding the boots Avestan had given him. The valet his mother insisted on brushed his hair and tunic before pronouncing him presentable.

The valet showed no sign of liking or disliking Rufe, simply doing his tasks efficiently. He likely hadn't worked here long enough to hear stories of the notorious Ferund bastard, or he ignored others' opinions. Rufe might come to like him.

He joined Mother and Father at the bottom of the stairs. Mother gave Father a tremulous smile, then took his offered arm.

Rufe felt like a child again, following behind his parents to the family burial plot. The last time he’d done so, they’d buried his grandfather. This time, he merely paid a visit to someone buried weeks ago.

The trees surrounding the plot were still dormant.

Soon, the area would be resplendent with pink blossoms. They passed a stone bench next to a reflection pool.

Grandfather’s massive headstone stood next to Grandmother’s smaller, yet more ornately carved one.

Three spots stood empty: one for Father, another for Mother, and one reserved for Rufe beside his father’s.

What? They’d intended to bury him as firstborn?

Oh, with his brother gone, they must’ve made recent rearrangements. Fresh earth marked Ronwith’s resting place next to Mother’s, currently without a headstone.

“He was so young,” Mother commented in a choked voice.

Rufe put his arm around his mother beneath his father's arm, saying nothing. What could he say? He lowered his head, taking in the moment. He didn’t know how long they stood together in silence before Father led Mother away.

Rufe waited until his parents left the cemetery to murmur quietly, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here, Ronnie.

I’m sorry for a lot of things.” His voice caught in his throat on a sob.

He stood by his brother’s grave, tears trailing down his cheeks for the lost time together, a life cut short, and so, so many regrets.

He gave a final sniff and wandered to a faded headstone in the very back of the cemetery, one of the first Ferunds to be buried here, dropping onto a worn stone bench.

A statue stood atop the grave marker, a woman with arms flung wide, face weathered away long ago.

The Unnamed Goddess kept vigil over one of his many times great-grandfathers.

No one knew much about the Goddess. As far as Rufe knew, she’d never had priests or priestesses to spread the word of her existence.

Because she remained unnamed, a very young Rufe had taken her for his own.

She could be whatever the believer wanted if she didn’t stand for harvest, war, or other things like the known gods and goddesses.

Rufe’s own personal goddess. “Unnamed Goddess, please see to my brother, wherever he might be.” The fresh tears on Rufe’s cheeks surprised him. Apparently, he had more grieving to do.

Relatives began arriving after noon. Rufe wasn’t required to greet them, so he remained in his room, postponing the inevitable for as long as possible. Those who didn’t currently hate him soon would, and several cousins might gloat right now, thinking they’d be named heir in his stead.

Emma arrived to fetch him. “It’s time, Lord Rufe.” Was she the lone servant who agreed to get him, or had she asked for the privilege?

“Thank you, Emma.” She’d never know how much her friendship meant to him.

By the time he arrived, the formal dining room was almost full, and several attendees appeared to be taking advantage of Father’s well-stocked wine cellar. Rufe entered behind his mother and father, with Father sitting at the head of the table, Mother to his right, and Rufe to his left.

Delicious scents drifted from the kitchen, causing Rufe’s stomach to rumble. Did the cook still make his favorite savory meat pies ?

Portraits of his ancestors hung on the walls, with sconces placed between them to light their images in the evening. Now, the open shutters admitted sunlight from two large windows, flanking each side of the hearth, making candles unnecessary.

Several sneers caught Rufe’s eyes when he glanced down at the table. Judging by the frown on Father’s face, he’d noticed, too. Assorted kin sat gathered around the table, all much older than his memories supplied. Funny how he’d grown older but expected everyone else to stay the same.

Servants shuffled in, filling wine glasses and serving roasted venison, potatoes, fish, and other local dishes. Emma shuffled in with one lone meat pie on a plate, which she placed before Rufe. Bless her soul.

Memories didn’t do the pie justice. He finished every bite, ignoring a few envious gazes coming his way. Several attendees spoke quietly among themselves, the drunker ones the loudest. Apple pastries completed the meal.

Once servants cleared away plates and refilled glasses, Father stood.

Best to make his announcement while at least half those in attendance stood a chance of remembering.

“Thank you all for coming to this tribute for my son and heir, Lord Ronwith Ferund, taken from us far too early.” He lifted his glass in a toast, joined by several others who’d been paying attention and hadn’t already drained their glasses.

“My oldest son, Commander Rufe Ferund of the Imperial Forces, has returned to us.”

Half-hearted clapping ensued. Few cheered for a bastard. Rufe braced himself, fully aware of what came next .

Father glanced around the table, gaze stopping on Mother, who smiled and nodded before he focused his attention on Rufe. “Emperor Avestan Aravaid legitimized Rufe as my lawful son and heir.”

Anything from gasps to murmuring to outright rage followed.

Father held up a hand. “If you are at my table, you are family or closely enough aligned to this family for my announcement to make a difference to you. Before you do or say something you’d regret, I’d like to remind you that the next Duke of Haston is in attendance, and he has the endorsement of me, the emperor, and King Draylon Aravaid of Renvalle. ”

“Mine too.” A tall, distinguished-looking older man rose, a bit wobbly, from his seat. A fifth cousin, something removed, if Rufe remembered correctly.

“Mine, as well,” said a woman who remained seated. Father’s great aunt on grandmother’s side of the family?

Father continued, “I've made my decision. There is nothing else to be said.” He sat.

The gathered crowd buzzed like angry bees or hissed like feral cats. A few left, some staggering from too much drink. To the remaining individuals, Father said, “We appreciate your attendance this afternoon,” dismissing them.

Far more people than Rufe expected passed by his chair, welcoming him home and offering words of acceptance, some with genuine smiles on their faces. Who knew?

A few asked, “So tell me, Lord Rufe, do you have a duchess in mind?” Their coy smiles said they’d gladly offer suggestions .

Rufe answered each time with, “I’m mourning the death of my brother. I’ll save such thoughts for another time.”

Some slunk off, chastened. Others merely smiled all the more.

When Father, Mother, Rufe, and Emma remained, Father said, “Emma, would you be so kind as to assemble the servants?”

Surely, gossip had reached them by now, and they needed no formal announcement, but it was a courtesy to give one. They filed in, taking their places along the walls, from the stable lad Rufe met yesterday to the groundskeeper and everyone in between.

“Thank you for coming,” Father said. “My son Rufe has returned to us, legitimized by myself, my wife, and the emperor as my son and heir. You are to follow his instructions as if they were my own.” The message was clear: If you don’t like it, leave.

A few servants glowered, likely believing their unkindness during Rufe's youth had numbered their days. They’d thought him unworthy for most of his life. Although they might not want him as Duke, Rufe didn’t want the job either.

A knock came at Rufe’s door way too early in the morning. “Lord Rufe?”

“Yes?” Rufe rose, wrapping a dressing gown around himself and grabbing his sword from its scabbard. He’d expected adversity, but not so soon.

“You have a visitor in the parlor.”

Rufe relaxed, but not by much. “See to their comfort. I’ll be down momentarily.” He flung off the gown, rubbed a hand over his tired eyes, and scrambled into the clothing he’d worn to dinner. His hair might be a lost cause, but anyone seeking an audience at this hour couldn’t expect his best.

He trudged down the stairway, jaw creaking in a yawn, and entered the parlor. A single lantern lit the room, casting shadows on a cloaked figure by the window, back turned.

Rufe gripped his sword tighter. “Who are you, and what do you want with me?” He braced for an attack.

Gloved hands drew back the hood, revealing… copper hair.

Rufe’s heart seized for a moment until the image truly sank in. Brown eyes, cropped hair, scar down one cheek. A woman, not a man.

The woman turned. “Commander Rufe. Thank the goddess I found you.”

All weariness fled. Rufe placed his sword on a table and crossed the distance in three long strides, taking her into his arms. “Lieutenant Lutrell! What are you doing here? Is Draylon all right? Yarif?”

Lutrell’s eyes shimmered in the low light. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. She swayed on her feet. “Commander. They sent me to you. You must come at once.”

Rufe’s heart leaped to his throat. “What’s wrong?” Had something happened to Draylon or Yarif?

“There is unrest in Delletina. Nobles have taken King Niam’s sons. ”

Rufe’s suddenly weak knees threatened to topple him. He grasped the edge of a table to steady himself. Quillan! Uri! “What about King Niam?”

“He escaped and is in Renvalle. They’re amassing a force.”