Caravellum

Flames billowed across the plains of Glenbrook, their crimson tongues lashing black upon the rolling hills. Leviathans of iron and canvas drifted through the clouds of smoke, jettisoning fire and brimstone upon the fields below. Lucynthia watched from the window of Castle Wolffort as she gripped onto Erdict’s shoulders. The young boy hid his tear-stricken face in her skirts, locks of knotted hair shaking with each sob. The wind had died, and the Wolffort standards hung limply atop the ramparts.

She turned at the sound of footsteps, awkwardly shielding Erdict as her lame leg dragged across the wooden floor. The man stood by the door as an ashen ghost, face streaked with grime and darkened with sweat. His dirt-laden beard drooped from his gaunt cheekbones. His fatigued eyes brightened as he spotted Erdict and he smiled.

“Papa!” The young boy cried as he leaped down the steps into his father’s dusty embrace. With his son’s arms around his neck and cheek against his, there was a single moment in which Serenoa forgot the months of darkness, and became just a father. Then the moment passed, and he was Lord Wolffort once more. He placed a hand upon Erdict’s shoulder.

“Your mother has been worrying over you, lad. Best give her some peace of mind now.” His voice was a smoke-strangled rasp.

The boy nodded and dashed out into the hallways. Lord Wolffort gave him a lingering glance as he left. He turned to Lucynthia, who had settled from her cautious hunch.

“Any word on the ballistae?” He asked.

“The craftsmen should have been here by now.” She said, trying to hide the anxiety in her voice. “I have been trying to send a message but the hawks won’t fly through the smoke.”

“Then, we must survive.” He said as he approached the window.

“Has there been any news from the expedition?” She asked.

He shook his head. “We must trust that Roland and Svarog will find the rebel base in time.”

There was silence. They watched out the window as the airships began to withdraw from the dark skies against the setting sun. They would be back in the morning. Minutes passed.

“Your stormy departure from the War Council was poorly received.” He finally said.

“As was my presence.” She retorted. “Most of the people in that room refuse to listen when I talk, and the others… well, I get the feeling that if I could walk on water, they would say it means that I could not swim.”

His brow furrowed. “I am sorry.”

“I do not mean to sound ungrateful for your hospitality when I fled the Consortium’s blackirons. However, I cannot feign to understand how you all continue to ignore me. I warned you months ago that the Consortium was hoarding food, and that their accounts showed salt and iron being transported beyond the western plains. At every turn, I urged the council to expose this corruption and, at every turn, they voted me down. And now, there are hellships flying from the west and bombing Glenbrook’s farms. I wonder who could possibly be funding that?”  She refused to contain the sarcasm dripping from her voice.

His face remained impassive, betraying no emotion. “The council has not been entirely convinced that you are not a spy.”

She felt a heat flush to her face, and a feeling of both exhaustion and frustration. “For Aesfrost? Did they forget that I was hounded out of there?”

“No. For Gustadolph.” Lord Wolffort said.

Lucynthia rubbed her temples with her fingers, beginning to feel a migraine. “My father is dead. Svarog made sure of that.”

“They fear that you are his revenger.” Lord Wolffort continued. “I must confess to my own curiosity as to why Gustadolph would not acknowledge you as his lineage if you are his blood.”

“Look at me.” She gestured broadly to herself. “A crippled, illegitimate daughter born to a Hyzantian dancer in an Aesfrosti bathhouse. Do you think my father, so obsessed with control and legacy, would have ever considered claiming me as his own? No, my inheritance was not the intrigue of the inner sanctum. It was a locked door in a back-alley tavern and enough salt to keep its lecherous proprietor quiet.”

She watched as Lord Wolffort stared out to the burning fields. “And now you refuse to even look at me, all because of something a man I never met did in a war ten years ago!”

He turned, and his eyes seemed to see through her. They had once been blue, like reflections of the summer sky, but they had now faded into an overcast grey. “Time doesn’t heal some things.” He said.

“Well, I refuse to be dragged down by its memory.” She replied.

The standards outside now billowed in the evening wind. There was a small group of soldiers preparing to head out to the fields and find survivors. Lucynthia fished into her pockets, and pulled out her token. She offered it to Lord Wolffort.

“I will find those craftsmen and bring them back to you. Should I return, I only ask that you might think better of my loyalties.”

He didn’t respond as he took her token. He just nodded. She turned and left, struggling to keep her limping pace even atop the fury and conviction that now boiled within her.