Year of the King 502, The Seaside Castle, Courtswale
Reschauld wasn’t old, yet. Autumn in the Seaside Castle was a tumultuous time. The preparations of a castle of such a size for the grueling winter months were the work of virtually half the year. The hay, alone, to feed the stables’ famed thousand horses, not to mention the scores of dairy cows, the hundred or more donkeys and asses, and the myriad goats that were kept in the castle’s lower levels was the work of a small army to store and portion. No wonder the castle chamberlain appeared to not have slept since 502. Just as troubling were the late-summer storms that hurled whipping rain and ravenous wind against the castle walls, rattling windows and light sleepers, pushing the thoroughly-tested strength of the stone floors until even the hardiest soul in the keep might have begun to doubt the castle’s durability. By the time these storms blew themselves out, winter would begin and bring with it nights that grew cooler and days that grew shorter. And pain in his hands. Reschauld stubbornly pressed on, meticulously penning the final paragraph of his letter of congratulations to the Lord Fenegret and the Lady Gretielle on their recent marriage. Actually, it was not his letter. The newlywed nobles likely wouldn’t recognize his face, let alone his name. This letter was from Lady Revenhjar, Reschauld’s sworn liege, and her indisposed husband. Reschauld’s aching fingers paused over the final “honorable” the message was to contain. Lord Revenhjar had always preferred to write his own personal congratulations and consolations and dispatches of this type. Official letters, summons, replies to inquiries, any communication about business and the running of his and his wife’s lands, he would have not hesitated to assign the writing to someone else. But personal letters, even to people he did not know well, the Lord had always taken the time to write in his own hand. The fire in the grate lapped against the soot-smeared marble of the fireplace. Its warmth flowed out across the study, over the thick Yvella rug dyed in their famous twisting patterns and the heavy old bookcases packed to bursting with books and scrolls, old and new, mostly read and kept within easy reach. Shadows filled the space, from the gaping blackness of the hearth’s enormous mantel to the tiny chiseled patterns in the wood of the furniture around him and made Reschauld’s world seem deeper, perhaps even darker, than it appeared under sunlight. Beside him burned a little brazier fed with coals from his fireplace, and when Reschauld had written the last letter of the last word and forged his Lady’s signature with a hand that had been practicing for decades, sprinkled the wet ink with sand and set the parchment out to dry, he finally turned to the wonderful heat source and held his sore bones near it. Absently, he tugged at the snug wrist of his sleeves, ensuring his arms were fully covered. The heat radiated, melted into his skin like liquid and erased the creaking pain between his fingerbones. There was a knock on the door and Reschauld quite nearly leapt out of his skin. He snatched his hands back from the brazier and peered over his spectacles at the open door to his study. Without ceremony, as usual, in strode his life’s loudest occupant and his best friend of over twenty years.