The Vampire & Her Witch

The heavy oak door to his father’s office swung open on well-oiled hinges, revealing a room that looked more like a crypt than a place of power and rule. While the intricately carved Lothian Throne stood in the great hall as a powerful symbol of the Marquis’ authority, for generations this had been the room where the quill was wielded like a sword, and the decrees that would be announced from the throne were carefully written and revised.

It was this room, rather than the great hall, that formed the beating heart of Lothian power in the march, and it was here that Bors Lothian had locked himself away as soon as he was free of the constricting prescriptions of fussy healers and concerned stewards.

Owain paused as he stepped across the threshold, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom while the scent of the space struck him like a physical blow to the nose, accompanied by a cloying mixture of burned herbs and incense that caught in his throat. But no matter how much incense his father burned, it failed utterly to mask the underlying stench of sickness and unwashed clothing that permeated the room.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows that dominated the western wall, the grey winter sky had darkened further, and the hailstorm had returned with renewed fury. Ice pellets the size of peas or grains of barley clattered against the thick glass panes in an irregular rhythm, like skeletal fingers tapping impatiently for entry, and the sound filled the office with a restless, agitated energy that would never allow a person in the office to rest.

The fire in the great stone hearth had burned down to sullen orange embers that barely cast enough light to illuminate the demon-fur rug before it. No servant had been permitted entry to add fresh logs, Owain realized, which meant his father had been alone in here for at least several hours, or possibly the entire day, and the winter chill had begun its inexorable creep into the room, making the imposing office feel even less welcoming.

The great desk that had been carved from the trunk of one of the Vale’s sacred Ancient Oaks, a trophy in itself, torn from land his ancestors had conquered, was no longer as neat and orderly as it had once been.

Instead, it had become an island in a sea of parchment and chaos. Stacks of documents covered nearly every inch of the polished surface, some piled so high they threatened to topple at the slightest disturbance. Fresh red wax seals gleamed dully in the firelight, each stamped with the Lothian coat of arms, and colorful silk ribbons marked what Owain assumed were the most important decrees.

Clearly his father recognized that the end was close at hand and he was using what little time he had left to impose his will on a world that was rapidly slipping from his grasp. More documents lay scattered on the floor around the desk, some crumpled, others bearing what looked like wine stains or perhaps drops of blood from the persistent cough that haunted him since early autumn.

The leather-covered chair behind the desk sat empty aside from a rumpled blanket that had been draped across the chair’s arms. Near the desk, the embroidery chair that Owain’s mother had once sat in to keep his father company when he worked late into the night stood like a silent observer, though unlike everything else near the imposing desk, the embroidery chair looked like it had been recently dusted, polished, and none of the clutter had come within two paces of the sacred seat.

It was there, standing next to his mother’s chair, that Owain’s eyes found his father, standing with one hand on the chair’s high back, using it to support himself as he gazed out the window at the hailstorm that pelted his manor and his city beyond the manor’s walls.

Despite the ravages of his illness, Bors’ figure was still imposing, and he radiated a fierce determination as he looked out upon his domain. His gray hair hung limply in a simple pony tail, held in place by a simple leather cord the marquis had used to keep his hair out of his way while he poured over documents. His sunken cheeks were covered in a layer of thick stubble, and his tunic looked like it had been slept in for several days, but no matter how much the sickness ravaged his body, Bors refused to yield to the disease.

”Father,” Owain said as he shook off the weight of unwanted feelings that welled up from deep within his heart when he saw his ailing father standing next to his mother’s chair. The time for childish sympathies had ended long ago, and they would only distract him from the unpleasant task he’d come here to complete.

”You should be in bed, taking your rest,” Owain continued as he crossed the room to reach his father’s side. The mask of the dutiful son, cowed in his father’s imposing presence, was one Owain had perfected long ago, during the turbulent years that followed his mother’s death.

Loman had never needed to learn how to manage his father’s outbursts the way Owain had. His cowardly brother fled to the Holy City long before their mother’s death and he never even returned to stand beside her funeral pyre.

But Owain knew very well how quickly his father could turn from calm and placid to violent and furious, and Owain had to fight to overcome years of habit to approach within a few paces of the desk. Even if his father wanted to hurl one of the heavy, intricately carved stone paperweights at him, Owain doubted they’d pack the punch they once had. He might even let the old man throw something at him, one last time... He wouldn’t even try to block or avoid it. After all, if he emerged from his father’s office with fresh wounds, it would only lend credibility to the story he intended to tell when he left.

”Owain,” Bors said as the ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. ”Have you gone to see your mother yet? She stepped out not long ago to speak to Master Ysaig about dinner tonight. You know how your mother worries whenever you’re away from home, so if you’ve come to see me without speaking to her, don’t expect me to protect you from her scolding.”

”Mother?” Owain said, blinking in surprise as he looked from the carefully tended embroidery chair to his father and back again. Hearing his father speak as though his mother was alive was so shocking that it took him a moment to process the name his father had used to refer to the Master of Kitchens.

He didn’t mention Master Baden, the most recent master of the kitchens who Percivus had executed in his attempts to uproot a conspiracy against the Lothian Marquis. He said ’Ysaig’, the man who had been the Master of Kitchens when Owain was just coming of age as a young knight and taking his first steps out into the world to fight against the demons on the borders of the march.

”Your mother has been fussing over me a great deal these past few days,” Bors said as he turned away from the window and returned to his chair, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders without a trace of shame as he gave his son a long, evaluating gaze.

”I had to flee our chambers before she started feeding me each bite of food,” Bors said with a thin, hollow chuckle that barely managed to avoid agitating his persistent cough. ”She was already cutting things up into tiny bites for me and threatening to take away my knife. I may be a little sick,” he said, giving his chest a light tap with a loose fist. ”But I’m no invalid,” he insisted.

”Of course not,” Owain said as he realized how utterly lost in delusions his father had become. It was one thing to know how Spider Demon Venom could twist a man’s mind, but it was something else to see it in person. Now that he had witnessed it first hand, however, his mind spun rapidly as he questioned whether or not to follow through with the plans that he’d formed on the long carriage ride from Hurel Village.

After all, if his father was still speaking about talking to his dead mother when the barons arrived to attend the gathering of the full Lothian Court, Owain wouldn’t even need to raise a finger to see the old man declared unfit to sit upon the throne... the Lothian Court would do all the hard work for him.

But then, that would be letting his father off too easily for everything he’d done to his eldest son. There was only so much a man could endure, after all, and threatening the woman he’d claimed was the very last straw. His father would never have allowed a man to live if they’d harmed his beloved Isla, and in this matter, Owain and his father were exactly the same.

Bors had sent Inquisitor Percivus after Jocelynn, after a woman who Owain had claimed as his next bride, and that was an offense he could never forgive...