“I do not pay you to dance with a strumpet from the kitchens!” Malaegar thrashed his hand across Faolan’s sallow face, ironically leaving it with some colour of life. Faolan did not feel a thing, he was drunk with wine and what he might have called love.
“You asked me… ordered me to keep a watchful eye on your sister’s movements, I did. You told me to escort the stranger to the chapel and sit far from your sister, we did.” he swayed a little, his hair not so tidy as he would have liked. “Never did a single instruction with regards to the ball pass your lips…” He smiled with yellow teeth, his eyes half closed. “…my Lord”.
Malaegar’s face twisted firstly in reaction to Faolan’s drunken belligerence, but it grew more so as he realized the drunken fool was correct. He breathed heavily through his nose, gritted his teeth and slapped Faolan again.
“It was implied, you ignorant wretch” he continued. “Look at you, drunk, in my chamber. Your antics forced me to escort the girl Petunia to her chamber, rather than my dear sister.”
“Petunia? I thought…” Faolan’s confusion would have been no less, were he sober.
“Do not think, you fool, other than about what I order and what is implied. For now, leave my sister alone; leave her to her new friend.” his voice quietened “Do not disappoint me again.” Malaegar gestured for Faolan to leave. The old man swayed and turned about “And Faolan…” he swayed back “have a bath for the sake of my nose.” Faolan fumbled at the door and stumbled away, closing the door behind him with the exaggerated care of someone attempting to appear less inebriated than they were.
Malaegar strolled out onto his balcony, already beginning to undress; he stared at that far light in the tower which often preoccupied him. He would sleep well tonight though.
“Perhaps the green flame of jealousy will melt your frosty facade?” he whispered to the night and retired.
***
Eldridge emerged, foot over threshold, into the night air. The sky was clear, the moonlight reflected on the black rock of the castle as the surface of a pond, giving the old man the appearance of an intrepid bather. He paused for a moment on the steps at the foot of a thin watch-tower, gathering his red evening robes about him breathing warmth into his hands as he rubbed them together, he checked his lamp, coughing as his raw throat acclimatized to the cold air. Eldridge looked out across the moors. It was a quiet, windless night and the drowned landscape shimmered in the pale light. He stepped out onto the battlements, which wound between and around the tallest of the castle’s towers. In this light they appeared like boney fingers in delicate silver gloves reaching into the inky black of the starry night sky.. Then he was off, careful to avoid patches of frost as he traversed his well-trodden way.
Turning a corner Eldridge found a stone beast glaring at him, its tongue dangling mischievously from its mouth. He rested for a moment, leaning upon the horned grotesque, surveying the way ahead. To each side there were a series of domed ancient rookeries known as the Ravens’ Roost. Eldridge often reflected that this was something of a misnomer, as there was no longer a single solitary raven to be found in the whole of Ravensholme! It had been decades since he had seen one. Rather this was now home to the crows. They packed the roosts and spilled across the floor like a cobbled surface of hooded monks at prayer, their bowed heads tipped with moonlight.
Carefully, Eldridge stepped out into the crows’ midst. The frost crunched beneath his feet, with each step he was determined not to slip or wake the birds. Half-way he stopped to take stock, too far to turn back, though not yet safe. His next step crackled horribly, cutting through the silence. He sucked in the cold air and held his breath. A single crow stirred for a moment, gently cawed and adjusted itself. Eldridge sighed with relief and continued on his careful way. Finally, he made it to the far side and paused for a moment where the battlements once again narrowed. Having successfully made it across he looked up towards his goal, a great metal dome set upon a turret just ahead.
With a sharp jerk and a sickening metallic screech, Eldridge forced the handle upon the door to the dome. The startled crows scattered and a thunderous tumult of wings and shrieks rose up, seeking out any whom might be to blame for the rude awakening. Eldridge suddenly burst into action, jumping into the dome and slamming the iron door shut. The angry crows crashed into the door, Eldridge clasped his hands to his ears as the deafening noise reverberated the whole room. After a raucous while, silence finally descended and Eldridge, slumped on against the door, could breathe once more. He had made it, though he had yet again been reminded that he was not as young as he once was. However, it was his duty as Keeper of Records and Custodian of the Libraries and Archive, on the night of the previous Lord’s internment, to check the night sky for any sign of the new Lord’s fate. The old man got to his feet and dusted down his robes, his hair more unruly than ever. He wiped his round spectacles on his sleeve and replaced them to his hooked nose. Raising his lamp to see better, he lit a sconce by the door.
This riveted iron dome was the observatory of Ravensholme. At its heart was a great brass telescope, suspended within two iron rings over a latticed grid metal floor. Etched into the curved surface of the domed ceiling were the runes of innumerable scholars, noting dates and observations of old. The earliest of these were even indecipherable to Eldridge! His eyes came to rest upon the telescope. It was at least ten paces long, with an immense lens at one end. He removed the leather lens cover and carefully picked a fleck of dust from the polished glass surface. This had been his master’s pride and joy, he smiled. He looked with fondness to the metal viewing chair which was suspended from the same framework as the telescope, positioned by the eyepiece in the centre of the room. Reaching for a loop of chain hanging from the ceiling and with his full weight, Eldridge began to tug and run the chain through his hands. There was some resistance at first, but with a metallic juddering, each tug saw a section of the ceiling sliding further open and the telescope rising to meet the silvery moonlight which poured into the room. Delving into his robes he produced a small notebook. He mumbled to himself as he found the relevant page and cross-referenced his notes with the cardinal compass points etched into the floor to estimate the direction in which he had to aim the telescope.
Eldridge took his place in the chair, he squirmed a little at the cold touch of metal. To his left and right were brass levers and at his feet, a series of pedals, all of which he began to expertly manipulate. For a moment Eldridge forgot his aches and pains, and even the cold. He laughed heartily as the deafening trundle of clockwork cogs and machinery rose up from within the tower below. The smallest input on his part set the entire room in motion. The dome rotated and the telescope rose and fell smoothly scanning the night sky. Eldridge was just about to input coordinates, when he sneezed… repeatedly. As he spasmed, there was an unrepeatable combination of pulls and pokes at the controls and the telescope suddenly whirred to a vertical position taking the chair with it! Eldridge’s back was to the floor and after a moment of surprise, his senses returned to him. Wiping his nose on his handkerchief, he smirked a little and with a frown of concentration, manipulated the controls to aim the telescope in the prescribed direction, to the north.
Eldridge sighed as he waited for a singular cloud to drift out of his line of sight. Sometimes it seemed to him that reality itself conspired to make his old age more arduous. Earlier, when the guests had been gathering in the chapel, Edlridge had remembered that the last of the napkins had not been fetched from the linen stores. He had taken the last-minute job upon himself and as if in spite of his urgency the wind had thrown the stack of crisply folded cloths all about the courtyard outside the washrooms before lulling for long enough for him to gather the, now filthy, napkins only to return them to be washed once more. Deeply frustrating. He had scarcely made it to the chapel on time. He again dipped into his pocket and retrieved a flask of brandy to pass the time and keep him warm.
“Finally!” he muttered as the cloud moved far enough for him to begin his observations. He adjusted his spectacles and consulted the notebook.
“First, I must locate the Corax cluster”. He looked up from the book and adjusted a dial on the right of the telescope. The lens focused in on the stars which were commonly known as the ‘Raven’. For centuries, it had been a firm belief and tradition of the Lords of Ravensholme that these pin-pricks of light held sway over their fortunes, for better or worse. To the naked eye the stars appeared as one bright light in the sky, but with the aid of a telescope, the Raven could clearly be seen. Periodically, the constellation appeared to subtly shift its direction in the heavens, in particular reorientating the ‘beak’ of the bird and thus new fates and destinities could be divined. Naturally, the interpretation of the beak was entirely at the mercy of the observer.
“It is observations of those stars, in tandem with tradition and belief, which forge the wonderful and terrifying predictions which my predecessors made via this scope.” Eldridge mused, raising a finger as he continued “An elegant tool of observation, reason and knowledge may easily work against such dispassionate truths when subject to the observer’s fancy.” He recalled the wisdom of his mentor. “Clarity on this point separates us from the foolish!”
He cast his eye over the illegible runes upon the curved ceiling for a moment.
“Who is to say they do not prescribe me as Lord of Ravensholme?” he murmured and laughed aloud. Perhaps it was he and his predecessors, uncritically following this tradition, meticulous as it was, who were foolish? Eldridge sipped from his flask and casually returned his eye to the scope. He gasped, and with a resounding clunk, his flask dropped to the floor.
***
Raghnall stared into the mirror. His hands rested to either side of the wash bowl, supporting his weight upon hunched shoulders. He had been back in his chamber for an hour. A while ago he had gone to wash and once again caught his reflection.
Where had the years gone? He wondered as he surveyed the face which peered back at him. Faint lines and cracks had begun to map out the years of wandering upon his brow. His once dark hair had begun to grey and with the sun and rain, become hardy. In all that time he had grown and maintained his short beard, a novelty when he fled his home, but now it was smattered with silver. Raghnall was no-longer young.
He reflected upon his youth, searching the known world for some place to settle, but nowhere had he felt at ease, in town, village nor hamlet. Wherever he laid his head, he was reminded of his failure, his inadequacy as an heir of Capia. Until now, he had not stayed more than a week in any bed. Even illness had not prevented his nomadic meanderings. But here, in Ravensholme, he had halted. The irony, he thought, was that a sense of responsibility had prevented him from moving on.
He looked himself in the eyes, the only thing which had not deviated too far from childhood memories of mirrors and ponds. These deep brown windows had become accustomed to hiding the youthful light behind them, though now a weary worldliness resided within. Raghnall was finally happy. Despite his past and the duty he had shirked, he finally felt he had served some purpose worthy of his family name. Despite lacking title, he was helping a young Lord’s family as the weight of rule beared down upon them.
“If only one such as I had wandered through the gates of my Father’s house to reassure me.” he whispered softly and sighed. He quickly reminded himself that such thoughts were folly and washed his face.
Changing out of the black funeral-shirt, Raghnall pulled a white bed-shirt over his head. He walked out onto the small balcony, with a growing sense of peace. His mistakes had not been in vain. Resting his hands upon the black rail, he gazed at the moon beyond silver touched towers.
***
Eldridge hastily thumbed at the dog-eared pages in his notebook. Surely, this could not be? He cannot have seen what he had? It must be something else! However once again, he found that the elements had sabotaged him. His cold digits fumbled at the pages. He swore and blew into his cupped hands, coughing as he breathed in the cold night air with haste.
***
Aaralyn was changed and ready for bed as she sat at her dresser, running a comb through her hair. She turned her head briefly to better see in the mirror and smiled with contentment, looking about the room. She had always liked her little bed chamber with its coned roof, tucked away beyond the green gallery, at the top of Branwyn’s Tower.
Aaralyn had always revelled in the stories her father would tell of princess Branwyn who was kept prisoner here by her cruel mother, a witch, who had poisoned her father and was horribly jealous of Branwyn’s melodious voice. Each night Branwyn would sing to keep her spirits up and her song could be heard throughout the castle and across the vale.
One day a handsome prince happened to hear her song upon the wind and he fought for days, through arduous trials and traps to reach her. Branwyn had aided her prince in his quest by throwing her voice, echoing across the courtyards below, confusing the pursuing guards. She had issued improbably meticulous and specific requests to the servants, to retrieve moss from the deepest dungeons, sticks from the darkest forest and feathers from the tallest tower, scattering them far and wide across the castle. In the midst of the confusion, the final confrontation with the witch saw the prince victorious against her magic and Branwyn was finally freed on a mid-summer’s eve. Together with her prince, they ruled in peace and prosperity and together their voices made the most wonderful melody ever after.
A thousand roses had been painted onto the plaster all around the room. A rose, painted by Branwyn for each day of her imprisonment, Aaralyn’s father had insisted. Aaralyn liked to think that her comfortable old bed, her creaky wardrobe and perhaps even the dresser and chair at which she sat had once belonged to Branwyn the brave. Ironically, of-late, her chamber had actually become a place of refuge away from her unpredictable and controlling brother. But perhaps all of that was about to change?
Since Raghnall’s arrival Aaralyn had felt the weight of her worries lessen. He truly reminded her of her father; a thoughtful, kind man who was not enamoured by the looming edifice of Ravensholme. She placed the comb back upon the dresser and stood, resting a heavier gown from the chair about her shoulders as she did. Walking across the deep red marbled floor to her balcony, she savoured the sensation of the cool slabs at her feet. As she emerged into the night a gentle breeze greeted her. It was a beautiful night, she thought. She looked across to the dome of the great telescope. She had distinctly heard it earlier, clanking and whirring in the crisp night air, but now it sat motionless.
“I wonder what portents Eldrige will see?” She whispered. Aaralyn could feel a change was in the air.
Leaving the balcony door slightly ajar, Aaralyn retired and slipped into the warm embrace of her bed. With the blanket tightly gathered about her cheeks, she smiled contentedly, contemplating the moon as she drifted to sleep.
***
Eldridge slammed his notebook closed upon his lap and sank to the floor, aghast. He felt around for his flask in hope that some whiskey might remain. Staring into space, he took a swig without blinking and sat for a moment, deep in thought upon the cold metal floor. Eldridge had just witnessed an interstellar alignment which had been theorized but was thought to be practically impossible. He groaned as he hauled himself on to one knee. The scarlet cloud of the Gwaed nebula was behind the Corax cluster! The great raven constellation was almost entirely engulfed by the light of the nebula. And its beak! The raven’s beak was lowered as if cowed. It was thought that in the event of such an alignment, the fate of the new Lord would be mired by blood, madness and likely the destruction of Ravensholme itself! Eldridge stood, dusted off his trousers and thoughtfully reached for his spectacles, holding them briefly up to the moonlight and polishing them with the cuff of his sleeve. He frowned as his glance came to rest, once again, upon the runes etched into the domed ceiling.
“These interpretations are entirely arbitrary.” He muttered, waving a hand. “Who knows? Perhaps my predecessor was mistaken when he penned such a hypothetical and dramatic interpretation?” True, Lord Malaegar’s path to Lordship had been troubled and trying, he thought, but all signs suggested that he was finding his footing. After all, his Great Grandfather had also played with fire. He had burned down the old wooden stables upon his unexpectedly youthful ascent to Lordship! “Lord Karmal had turned out well.” Eldridge reassured himself. There was no reason for such youthful and impudent behaviour to lead to the downfall of the entire province!
Eldridge yearned above all to see the moors tilled as fields, for the swamps to recede into ponds. For the people to reclaim what was lost. Moreover, despite rather enthusiastically grasping to claim his inheritance, for Malaegar to mature into a great Lord of Ravensholme. For the young man to be the figure around whom a new golden age might flourish.
“I think the discretion of the learn-ed is crucial in these matters.” Eldridge spoke aloud consulting with himself. He reached for the telescope and re-focused the eye piece.
Whether through sheer will to see so, or a genuine change he could not tell. It was now obvious to him that the prescribed diagram was not applicable.
“Clearly that is the talon, rather than the beak!” He spoke aloud, urging himself to pursue his revised logic. “And the nebula was close, but even now is clearly shifting.” He noted. “The corpus Corax is clearly, rather, a wing stretched out in flight!” As a final confirmation of his observations he checked the dial on the scope and tutted as it was slightly askew of the target direction. “Clearly I was too hasty.” he nodded and sipped again at his flask.
As was tradition, the librarian made a record of his observations in the note book:
“As tradition demands; on the passing of Lord Karman Ravensholme and the uptake of the charge of the Castle and lands of the afore-mentioned by his son Malaegar Ravensholme, Eldridge Leavermast made the following astronomical observations:
The Corax cluster in flight favours Mars and clear skies.
In concurrence with all of his predecessors Eldridge therefore predicts his Lordship will walk a smooth path to higher ground, preceded by uneven ground – The trek to the summit always begins in the shadow of the mountain.”
Eldridge would later write a formal letter of proclamation to Malaegar informing him of the prediction and wishing, on behalf of the people, the best in his stewardship.
“I shall see this place restored.” Eldridge again reassured himself. The old man pocketed his notebook and flask and returned the telescope to its neutral position. “Afterall, one does not encourage a child to walk by rebuking him.” Eldridge crossed the floor and with more noise than he would have liked, opened the door. “Once again”, he sighed, “I must face that cobble of crows.”
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