3 Young Lord

The sun was beginning to set as Iota Ashvan checked his last snare. Nothing, and it had been that way the entire excursion. It was well into winter now; whatever forest critters were left had either been hunted or migrated in search of a better food source long ago.

He cut out a lonely figure among the bare-winter trees and frost-covered bushes. Dressed as a common hunter—a thigh-length leather tunic over a long-sleeved, thick woolen shirt and breeches, he seemed more like an average village boy rather than a young prince of the Ashvan. That suited him just fine. He had never really fit in with the rest of his family anyway.

He gazed down at the path leading back to the clan grounds. That woman, his mother, despised his trips. She always had since the moment Verda had first taken him out. He had a feeling she never liked him personally. It was Noa this and Noa that. . . sometimes he just wanted to strangle the little brat. Would it hurt for her to cut him a little slack?

At fourteen years of age, Iota had shown zero signs of any talent besides causing trouble. Fortunately, his mother had three other children, each a genius in their own right. Noa, his younger brother, was tutored personally by Uncle Iman in swordplay. Iota had never shown much talent with the blade. Above Iota was Sigur, a natural at weaving and an accomplished scholar at only sixteen. She was bearable compared to Noa, if not a little conceited. Fafir, the eldest, a paragon of virtue, and a beautiful young woman with a heart of gold. He knew the truth. His sister was every bit as vain as her mother. Our mother, he corrected. Iota sighed as he made his way down the path that led to the clan grounds.

He smiled, nodding at a young girl drawing water from a well, as he walked into what was officially Ashvan territory. She nodded back, a little smile on her lips as she finished her task. With a bucket in each hand, she quickly caught up to Iota. He knew her quite well, Jen was her name, and she was one of the few brave enough to initiate a conversation with a young lord of the Ashvan.

"Greetings, Young Lord," she said, clear, melodious laughter quickly following. "You've been out and about skipping around in the forest again."

"I don't skip, Jen," he said.

Jen cocked her head. "Why not?" she asked with childish innocence. "It's fun."

He cracked a small smile. "Because I just don't," he said, quickly taking up a stern expression. He was a young lord, and he had to be strict with her. "I hunt, not skip around and play with the fairies."

Another cacophony of giggles erupted from her. "Fairies don't exist, and even if they did, why would they want to play with you?" She looked down at his belt. "And not much of a hunter if you couldn't even find a single rabbit."

"Bad weather," he muttered. "Not a single rabbit nor hare for miles."

She looked at him strangely. "Verda came up here earlier, and he had two rabbits on his belt, although they weren't very big."

He frowned. "Verda's special," Iota snapped, a little harsher than he intended.

"How so?"

His frown deepened. "He just is."

Verda, one of his uncles and a preserver of the clan, was the one who had first taught him how to set a snare. Unlike the rest of the preservers, he didn't mind getting down from his high horse and dirtying his hands with honest work. Iota had heard the rumors about him, almost everyone had, but he paid them no mind. Verda was Verda, and that's all he had to be.

Iota touched the long double leather cord hanging off his belt. His sling, which Verda had taught him to use months ago, had seen little to no action the past week. It wasn't like he could just conjure up prey to sling stones at.

With Jen trailing behind him, jabbering on about the great fun to be had in skipping, he continued toward the clan grounds.

Built on top of a large hill overlooking the town, the clan estate was easily the largest building in the region. It could be called a town within a town. Past the outer walls was a complex of homely wooden shacks, where the estate servants and branch families would reside. It had been dubbed Lower Ashvan by its residents. Past the shacks was a smaller wall with a large iron gate meant to keep the common people out. Only servants and members of the main family were given passage through that iron gate.

The second wall just dozens of strides away, Jen glanced nervously at the iron gate. "I should get back," she said in a soft voice. "These buckets aren't going to deliver themselves." With a nervous giggle, she flashed him a small smile and turned in the opposite direction.

He couldn't blame her apprehension, a pack of village boys, too nosy for their own good, had once been caught trying to sneak through in the dead of night, and Iman had them publicly caned and put on display for hours. After that, nobody tried to sneak in again.

A pair of sentries flanked the iron gate.

"Evening, Tully. Evening, Mordo. Had dinner yet?"

Tully, the taller of two sentries, shook his head. "Still waiting to be relieved," he said. "Young Lord," he quickly added.

"Slim pickings, Young Lord?" Mordo asked him, gesturing to his rabbit-less belt with the end of his spear. "Tried my luck earlier today, couldn't even scrounge up a bloody squirrel." He shook his head. "But Verda came in just a little earlier with a whole brace of rabbits on his belt. He's something else I tell you."

Iota sighed. "Sorry, Mordo," he said. "If I could've found anything I'd have snagged it for you two, I know your families don't see much meat on the table nowadays."

The two sentries exchanged a quick glance. "No need for all that, Young Lord," Tully said, making a dismissive gesture. "It's already enough to know that the well being of our families is in your heart."

Iota chuckled. "Now, now," he said, rubbing his chin. "No need for all that formal lip service. Tell your children hi for me, Tully, and I'll see you around, Mordo."

He waved them farewell and stepped, lightly, through the opened gate. For some reason, he always stepped lightly around the main estate. The air just felt thicker.

Past the iron gate was a courtyard of packed earth. His mother often talked about planting some greenery but had never got around to it. A single, winding path led to the Ashvan Manor. A great stone structure meant to imitate the hardy manors of Sevaskarr, it served simultaneously as their home and fortress. Following the path up until the front doors, he rounded to the back and went in through the servant's entrance.

A servant girl with a rag in hand wiping dishes in a bucket of soapy water looked up, startled, as he opened the door. "No need to worry," he told her.

Iota paused. "Has anyone come looking for me?" he asked her, stripping off the leather tunic and throwing it over a chair. "Particularly my siblings?"

With pursed lips and furrowed brows, she looked to be deep in thought. "I don't believe so, Young Lord," she said after a brief moment. "But I do believe your mother had forbidden you from leaving estate grounds after that incident with the boar."

Iota shrugged. "Did she?" he asked casually. "Because I don't ever recall that happening." Blasted boar, he thought. A month back, he had run into a particularly aggressive boar and had nearly gotten himself gored through the chest. His mother forbade all unsupervised trips to the forest soon after, but he had never really taken her rule to heart. "And bring my tunic up to my room after you're finished," he added. She nodded.

He left the kitchen with a frown, wondering what the next punishment would consist of, his mother had never skimped on devising new ways to punish him. It almost seemed like a hobby to her. The last time he had earned her ire, she had forced him out of the manor for a night, instructing the guards to only allow him in after he begged for it. They were understandably surprised when he took off to the forest with only a feather pillow and the silk nightclothes on his back. Fortunately for him, it had been a warm spring night. And sleeping under the stars always came naturally to him.

Lamps with bell-shaped glass lined the walls. Tapestries—bright enough to make his head spin—surrounded him on both sides. He took a moment to study one depicting Leonid Ashvan cutting an entire mountain in half. Hog-wash, he thought irately. Halving mountains and oceans, bringing down stars, all nonsense from the age of divinity, when gods supposedly walked among mortals. With a click of his tongue, he continued down his way.

The corridor eventually opened into a small, square room populated by a dozen different statues of varying sizes. The largest of them, placed right at the center of the room, depicted a handsome, bearded man in plate armor—the most common depiction of Leonid Ashvan. The rest of the statues were dedicated to the old gods. The Red Warden, Green Mother, Sun Keeper, he could list them all. His mother, a firm devotee of the old gods, made sure to school her children extensively on the matter.

Directly across the statue of Leonid Ashvan was a large, imposing door. Etched onto the frame were decorative patterns of birds in flight. Only recently had it been installed. It was another addition to that woman's ostentatious displays of wealth.

Around this time, she would usually be reading a novel by the hearth in the parlor suite. Iota knocked gently on the door, bracing himself for the incoming verbal lashing. Instead, it was a slightly hunch-backed elder in a rough, shapeless tunic who greeted him at the door, Ivar, the family servant.

"Welcome back, Young Lord," he said, bowing his head. Although a bow was only necessary when greeting the clan head, Ivar had always been a staunch traditionalist. "I trust your trip in the forest went well?"

"No, Ivar. It did not," Iota replied tersely. He glanced around the parlor suite. "Where is she?"

"The Lady requested your presence in the dining room upon your arrival," Ivar said respectfully, gesturing to another bird-patterned door on the opposite end of the room.

Iota drew his lips into a straight line and gulped. "Better get this over with," he muttered under his breath. He had half a mind to dash out of the room immediately. His mother just had that effect on him.

Walking up to the door, he paused and took a deep breath. "Is there a problem? Young Lord?" Ivar asked, his balding, wrinkled head cocked to the side.

"No, Ivar," he said, opening the door with a grim smile. "No problem at all."