The Vampire & Her Witch

The hailstorms that had plagued Lothian City for several days had finally passed, as if the foul weather had somehow been a manifestation of Bors Lothian’s ailing health, forcing the people of Lothian City to retreat into their homes in much the same way that Bors had retreated to his stately office during the final days of his life.

Now, the weather might still be cold as the fierce claws of winter winds sliced through the woollen tunics of the servants who were forced to work outside, but at least the skies were bright and blue with only a few wispy clouds to mar their perfection.

Inside Lothian Manor, Owain Lothian maintained his most charming smile as he passed through the grand hall where servants worked to transform the space for the coming ceremonies, but behind the mask, his mood was as foul as the stench of sickness and death that filled his father’s office until servants spent an entire night scrubbing it clean with a window propped open to allow in the fresh, frigid night air.

Two days. It had been nearly two full days since he’d pressed the pillow over his father’s face and held it there until the old man’s struggling ceased, and in that time, Owain had learned that securing a throne was far easier than managing the tedious aftermath of claiming it.

The funeral for his father. The memorial for his ’lost wife’, Ashlynn. The coronation, where he would ascend to the throne of Lothian March, before the full Lothian Court. Each of them required a thousand trivial decisions. Would Owain lead a hunt for the coronation feast, or would he delegate the honor to one of his supporters?

The High Table had room to seat thirty people, so would the barons of the march all be seated at the High Table with their wives, or would he prefer to arrange a ’Women’s Table’ for high-ranking ladies while the barons were permitted to bring their heirs to the High Table?

The list went on and on, and no matter how many times he told his father’s former steward to ’handle it’, the old man seemed to return just an hour later with a new set of details to discuss. Details that made Owain’s head ache and his patience fray.

He nodded absently to a chamberlain who bowed as he passed, then sidestepped a pair of serving women carrying tapestries outside to be beaten and cleaned of dust while the weather was still favourable. The whole manor bustled with activity, and everywhere Owain looked, he saw servants scurrying like ants as they prepared to host nearly every lord and lady of the March, along with dozens of their knights.

The manor hadn’t seen this level of activity since Owain’s marriage to Ashlynn Blackwell nearly a year ago, and even then, it hadn’t been so frantic. Ashlynn had arrived with her family weeks in advance of the wedding, and the preparations then had been a precisely choreographed dance as Countess Maela Blackwell stepped into the void left by Owain’s late mother to ensure that everything went smoothly, whether it was pre-wedding tea with the young ladies of Lothian March or the feast that followed the wedding.

Of course, the aftermath of the wedding had been a disaster, but that was hardly Owain’s fault. It was Rhys Blackwell, after all, who had sent a daughter bearing the mark of the witch to marry him. The man deserved to lose a daughter for the insult alone, and worse on top of that... but Owain had to restrain his temper when it came to his father-in-law. After all, the man was still useful for coordinating the arrival of soldiers from across the sea for the upcoming Holy War, and once Owain married Jocelynn, Rhys would become his father-in-law a second time.

At some point, Owain was determined to find a way to pay Rhys back for the insult of forcing Ashlynn on him when he had a prize like Jocelynn to offer. The man deserved to suffer for what he’d done, just like that brazen Steward of his, Sir Mor, deserved to suffer for making Owain’s visit to Blackwell all but unbearable with constant summons to visit the barons of the county, attending feasts, hunts, and all manner of pointless gatherings that took a toll on his time, temper and treasury.

But he would have to wait some time before moving against the Blackwells. After all, while Jocelynn seemed to care as little for her sister as Owain did, the death of her cousin Eleanor seemed to have troubled her far more than he thought it would have.

Under other circumstances, Owain might have found the energy of dozens of industrious servants to be infectious. A visible sign of his ascension was taking shape around him, with everyone turning to him, seeking his approval and hoping to measure up to his demanding standards. Instead, it felt like watching others build a monument to his irritation, one meaningless detail at a time.

What made it worse, what made it utterly unbearable, was that the one person who possessed the patience and temperament to manage such trivialities had all but disappeared from Lothian Manor, only presenting herself when he summoned her to join him for an evening or morning meal.

Jocelynn should have been at his side, using her attentive mind to sort through the chaos and the constant barrage of questions. Her graceful presence would have been more helpful in smoothing over the rough edges of transition than Owain liked to admit.

Instead, she’d spent the last day and a half at the temple with High Priest Aubin, ostensibly arranging matters for her sister’s memorial and preparing for her role in the ceremonies to come.

Ostensibly.

Owain’s jaw tightened as he descended the first flight of stairs toward the manor’s lower levels, leaving the bustle of preparation behind. Jocelynn was avoiding him in a way that she never had before. She flinched when he reached out to touch her, and no matter how rich and sumptuous a feast he had prepared for them to share, she barely touched her food, claiming that her stomach was ’unsettled.’

Owain didn’t know what Percivus had done to Jocelynn during the days the Inquisitor kept her prisoner. The man should have understood the limits of his authority when it came to laying hands on Owain’s woman, a woman who would soon become the Marchioness of Lothian March... But in his madness, Owain’s father seemed to have let the rabid dog of the Inquisition off his leash, and he’d sunk his fangs far deeper into Jocelynn than was proper.

The air grew cooler as he descended further, the sounds of industry fading behind him. Fewer servants worked these levels, and those he passed kept their eyes down, sensing perhaps that their lord’s pleasant expression didn’t match the darkness in his eyes.

Good, Owain thought as his carefully maintained mask of charm began to slip. Let them fear him. He’d slaughtered countless demons since coming of age, and he’d be damned if he’d spend his first days as Marquis buried under decisions about which color ribbons to tie on the ceremonial candles.

The smile that spread on Owain’s lips as he approached the entrance to the dungeons possessed none of the charm he’d displayed on the floors above. It matched the cruel glint in his eyes, along with an anticipation, as if he were preparing to unwrap a great gift or enjoy a rare delicacy.

Finally, something had gone right today. Sir Gilander had returned from Maeril mere hours ago with the best news Owain had heard since his father’s last breath rattled into silence: Percivus and his acolytes were secured in the dungeons below, exactly where Owain wanted them...