The Road to Vera Ferte

“There’s still time,” Cedric said.

He sat near the desk while the man at the window shifted his weight, folded his arms, then dropped them again. Outside, there was little beyond the lawn below, yet he remained fixed on it.

Cedric waited a moment before continuing. “At worst, we leave tomorrow, Lord Ardel. Lord Morcant asked that the lady be escorted safely. I doubt he would object to a delay if it meant ensuring that.”

The man finally turned, revealing a face leaner than Cedric remembered and marked by a tiredness around the eyes that had not been there seven years ago. He was tall, though perhaps not quite as tall as memory had made him. For a moment, he regarded Cedric in silence.

“You’ve been in Dervain too long. You’re starting to sound like them.” He paused. “And it’s just us, Ced. Call me Torin. I still hear Lord Ardel and expect my father to answer.”

“But you are Lord Ardel now.”

“I’m aware. It still sounds like him.” Torin walked back toward the desk, brushing against a stack of books near its edge. One slipped from the pile and fell to the floor.

Cedric bent to pick it up before Torin could, earning a sigh. Once, Cedric remembered, Torin had been particular about his things. Books returned to their shelves when he was finished with them. Papers never remained scattered across a table, and even as a boy, he had possessed an irritating habit of putting away whatever Cedric had barely finished using.

The desk in front of him bore little resemblance to the one Cedric remembered. Books lay open among loose papers and folded letters. A map had been shoved partly beneath them, one edge hanging over the side, while two cups competed for what little space remained—one empty, the other apparently forgotten.

Cedric returned the book to the pile and noticed the seal of Ardel amid the clutter. It was Torin’s now. Five months had passed since his father’s death, and Cedric suspected they had been long ones.

Ardel had never needed a storied name to secure its worth—the land took care of that. Its fertile valley yielded rich harvests, and its northern pass funneled merchants safely through the mountains when other routes turned treacherous. Prosperity was built into the soil.

So was envy, giving every neighboring house good reason to watch what became of Ardel now that its lord was gone.

Torin dragged a hand over his face. “Why can’t Marian understand that I’m trying to protect her, Ced?”

Cedric had no answer Torin would want to hear, so he said nothing as Torin turned back toward the window.

“Two boundary claims in five months. Men who used to wait weeks for Father’s audience now arrive at my gates demanding to be heard immediately. Veynor has questioned the northern toll agreement twice, and yesterday I received a letter suggesting the eastern villages were never properly granted to us in the first place.”

“They’re circling,” Cedric said.

“That is one way to put it.” Torin leaned back in his chair. “I can answer challenges. I can send men to the borders. I can drag every charter in this house out of Father’s archives and spend the next year proving that Ardel belongs to us. But I cannot do all of it at once.”

“So the marriage is meant to keep them off your back?”

Torin glanced down at the papers covering his desk. “Am I becoming like Father, Ced?”

The late Lord Ardel had brought a merchant’s instincts with him into lordship. He had been remarkably good at seeing what another man wanted and what Ardel could offer in return. Land, trade, influence—even marriage, when necessary. The instinct had made the house prosperous. Cedric had never been certain it had been as kind to the people inside it.

“She would have had to marry eventually. You know that. Since Father died, the proposals have come one after another.” Torin’s mouth twisted. “Some of them barely waited for the mourning bells to stop. They don’t want her. They want Ardel. Or access to it. Or an excuse to put their men inside our borders. And the few who might genuinely want Marian come from houses that would swallow ours the moment I gave them an opening.” His jaw tightened. “I will not hand my sister to a man who sees her as a convenient road into our land.”

“And Morcant does not?”

Both men knew precisely what House Morcant stood to gain from the match. The Morcants possessed what Ardel did not: a name tied to the Crown for generations. There had been Morcants in the royal line once, and enough of that blood remained that the present queen still counted them among her kin.

Once, that connection had made them nearly untouchable. Then Lord Morcant’s father backed the losing side of a rebellion. The Crown had answered by stripping the house of estates, hereditary offices, and privileges it had held for generations. The name survived. Much of the power behind it did not.

A marriage between them would give Morcant access to Ardel’s wealth and resources, while attaching Ardel to a name few neighboring houses would challenge lightly.

A breath left Torin slowly. “Is Thaddeus Morcant a good man?”

“Yes.”

“Are you saying that because you serve his house?”

“You asked me about the man.”

Torin considered that, then nodded once. Before he could say anything, a knock sounded at the door.

“Come.”

The household steward entered and bowed. “My lord. We still haven’t found Lady Marian.”

Torin straightened. “Her horse?”

“Still in the stable.”

“The gardens?”

“Searched twice.”

“The lower road?”

“Two men have been watching it since this morning.”

Torin rose and reached for the coat draped over the back of his chair. “Keep them there. Have the grounds searched again.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The steward bowed and withdrew. Torin took his coat and headed into the corridor, already calling for another servant by the time Cedric followed.

The house, at least, had changed considerably less than the man now responsible for it. Cedric continued along the western corridor, where the same pale stone lined the walls and narrow windows overlooked the inner courtyard. Voices carried up from the kitchens below, and farther ahead, someone struggled with a door that still caught against the floor, apparently no closer to being repaired than it had been seven years ago.

His father had commanded Ardel’s household guard, and for most of Cedric’s childhood, these corridors had been as familiar to him as the rooms his family occupied within them. He had remained here until seventeen, when his father sent him to Dervain to continue his training among knights whose reputation extended well beyond Morcant lands.

He had always intended to return, though seven years passed before he finally did.

By the time Cedric stepped outside, the courtyard had begun to fill with the people and horses meant to leave that day. Saddled mounts waited near the stables, while provisions were still being brought down and arranged near the steps. Several Morcant knights stood with their horses, speaking among themselves as they waited for further instruction. At the far side of the courtyard, Torin was speaking quietly with a member of his household.

Cedric had barely reached the Morcant knights when Roland stepped away from the group.

“Captain.”

“Lady Marian has been delayed by a household matter,” Cedric said. “The departure may be postponed.”

“Shall we assist?”

“Rest the horses and see that the men eat. I’ll send word when we know.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Roland returned to the others without asking for an explanation. Cedric turned toward the western gardens. If Marian still favored the places she had as a child, there was one part of the estate worth checking.

The old watchtower stood beyond the western gardens, half-hidden now by trees that had grown thick around its base. Once used to watch the road into Ardel, it had long since been abandoned in favor of newer defenses closer to the estate. What remained had become storage for things no one had bothered to throw away—broken shields, old spear shafts, a rusted helm, and several swords left in a rack against the wall.

Cedric pushed open the weathered door and stepped inside. Dust lay across the floor except where several fresh marks broke through it. The narrow staircase climbed along the tower wall, and Cedric started up.

Cedric had nearly reached the upper landing when a sword flashed above him and came spinning down the stairs, forcing him against the wall before it struck the steps below with a sharp crack. He took the remaining steps quickly and emerged into the upper room.

Across the room stood Marian Ardel, breathing hard, her dark hair coming loose and dust clinging to the hem of her dress. She stared at him as if she had forgotten for a moment why she was there. “Ceddie?”

The name was softer than he remembered, almost uncertain, but the warmth in it disappeared when she noticed the Morcant crest on his cloak. She shoved at his shoulder and squeezed past him toward the stairs.

“Lady Marian—”

She started down at a run, Cedric following close behind.

“Do not run on the stairs.”

“Go away!”

“You may slip.”

“That might be better,” she shot back over her shoulder. “Perhaps if I break an ankle, Torin will finally accept that I am not going anywhere. Or if I crack my head open, he may have to postpone this ridiculous journey altogether.”

“Hurting yourself will not change what has been decided.”

“Then perhaps I should try throwing myself down the rest of these stairs.”

Cedric quickened his pace. “Marian.”

“Don’t—”

Cedric closed the distance before she reached the next turn and caught her by the upper arm, bringing her to a stop against the wall. Marian twisted toward him and struck a hand against his chest, but his hold did not give.

“Do not speak about your life that way.”

“You’ve worn Morcant colors long enough. Surely you don’t need to worry about mine.”

“Marian Ardel.”

She stopped pulling against him. “I wasn’t being serious.”

“I didn’t find it amusing. Find another joke.”