The Vampire & Her Witch

Sweat rolled down between Loman’s shoulder blades and his body trembled as his father’s powerful presence rolled over him like a landslide. For as long as he’d held fast to his decision to dedicate his life to his church, there had never been a reason for the two to come into conflict with each other.

Certainly, there had been some spirited conversations at the family dinner table when a younger Loman had uncritically repeated things he’d learned at the temple but there had never been any heat in his father’s words when they traded ideas between the salad and main courses.

Now, however, for the first time, he felt himself on the receiving end of his father’s full force of will and his decades of accumulated wisdom and he realized that he’d badly misunderstood his father’s gentle and accepting nature. His father accepted because nothing Loman said or did ever threatened him. Now that Loman had chosen to launch an offensive, his father’s counterattack left him with little room to maneuver.

”Of course,” Loman said, trying to regain his composure in the face of his father’s intensity. ”I will always listen to Father’s wisdom.”

”Smart lad,” his father said, stretching out his hand to top off his son’s cup of wine. ”Let me get the nastiness out of the way first. Five years ago, if you’d approached me with a desire to become my successor, I would have been delighted. You showed a great deal of promise, more than your brother and I thought you would have made a better ruler than he would.”

”Unfortunately, that time has passed,” Bors said, ruthlessly stomping on the light of pride that had begun to shine in his son’s eyes. ”You wasted five years, and you can’t get them back. I let you enter the Temple because you said you wanted to and because your mother...” The Marquis abruptly stopped, forcing back the memories that threatened to spill forth when he thought of his departed wife.

”Your mother always supported you in following your faith,” he said. ”If she had still been with us, I might have argued but, I suppose I failed you just as you failed me when I let you do what you wanted.”

”Father, I,” Loman started, only for his father to cut him off once again. Clearly, the wine was starting to affect his father’s mood but his mind was still as sharp as ever.

”I said you listen and you will listen,” Bors said, tapping firmly on the desk. ”During the past five years, what have you done to show the people you can rule and what has your brother done with those years?”

”Your brother might be riding a lame horse, Loman,” Bors said. ”But yours is still in the stable. He’s way out in front with battle honors, a public wedding to a beautiful noblewoman who captivated the people with stories of years spent in romantic courtship, and he’s forming alliances with everyone from the merchant guilds of Blackwell County to the Dunn family of all people,” Bors said, shaking his head in amazement at how his least talented son had managed to court the thorniest of baronies in Lothian March.

”I’ve done much to help the people, Father,” Loman insisted. ”We feed more of the poor, heal more of the sick, clothe more of the needy. The temple’s doors are open wider than they’ve ever been and the pews are filled at every service. I have been there before the people, and beside them, every day for all these years.”

”It’s not enough,” Bors said, waving a hand dismissively. ”You have some reputation among the people in Lothian City, but if you called the barons to war, who would send their finest soldiers and who would send their discipline problems? Which could you press for an extra levy of grain and which would send you rotten wheat?”

”This is why I say that you’ve wasted these past five years, confined in your temple and rarely leaving Lothian City,” Bors said. ”If you’re going to contend for the position of heir, you cannot be so disconnected from the burdens of the throne. Your brother, for all that he has fallen short, has worked hard to take up these burdens. Even now, he’s standing before the people in my stead, showing them the man who will be their next Marquis.”

”You said you might be willing to give me a chance,” Loman said, looking for a silver lining to the dark clouds his father’s words summoned around him. It wasn’t until his father pointed out his own shortcomings that he realized the trap he’d fallen into.

It was easy to criticize Owain for his failures when he had known only success in all his endeavors. But the inescapable truth was that Loman hadn’t failed because he’d never tried. The burdens he had shouldered within the thick and mighty walls of the temple weren’t the same as the ones that Owain shouldered at all. If he wanted to take the throne from his brother, he would have to prove that he could bear those burdens better than his brother could.

”Owain has managed something extraordinary in befriending Liam Dunn,” Bors said. ”The problem is that Owain’s obligations require him to leave for Blackwell County after the Holy Festival of Light. Meanwhile, Liam is raising a force to attack the demons in the wilderness.”

”I’ve heard,” Loman said, nodding along as he saw where his father was going. ”Liam Dunn has been searching for support for his campaign. I could speak out from the pulpit and encourage people to flock to his banner. Perhaps I could direct some capable pensioners his way and...”

”You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Bors interrupted, pointing a finger at Loman so fiercely that his son almost flinched even though a massive desk stood between them. ”You’ll march to war with Liam Dunn or I’ll hear no more of you contending to be my heir.”

”March to war?” Loman said, blinking in surprise. ”I’m not like Owain, Father. I carry a healer’s staff but my fighting skills are meager at best.”

”But your healing skills are much more than meager, aren’t they?” Bors said with a calculating gleam in his eye. ”Owain counts his victories by the trophies he takes from his kills. You can count your victories by the lives you save while exposing yourself to danger.”

”No Lothian Marquis has ever failed to take to the field and fight against the demons,” Bors said. ”I can accept an heir who heals the wounded and commands his army from the rear but I can never accept an heir who will not join the battle.”

”So, the choice is yours, my son,” Bors said pointedly. ”There is an opportunity for you to prove yourself. I will not retire this year or for the next several years. If you can show me through your deeds that you are worthy then I can consider you as a better heir than Owain. But if you retreat at the first opportunity then this conversation will end and I will face the Church myself in your brother’s matter.”

”Now, I don’t want to hear the words you’ve prepared to say,” Bors said, his voice piercing Loman, like nails pinning him to the chair. ”Tell me what you’re going to do.”