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Rutger went out of his way to meet Vlad again. Once the crate of peanuts were delivered to Joseph’s office, Rutger intentionally made it so his path often ended up on that side of the mansion, or near where he knew the squires were training. Rutger’s good reputation saved him from being outright challenged, but he still received askance looks from Joseph’s faction whenever he happened to come across one.
He heard the rumours of what Vlad was like. Vlad was a mad dog, they said when they knew Rutger could hear. Rutger wondered how vicious they were when he wasn’t there to hear it.
The gossip wasn’t Rutger’s concern, but his knights were annoyed their squires were being ‘bullied’, and at one point one came up to Rutger about it.
“I can’t look after every squire,” Rutger said with annoyance. “Fixing their personalities is your job, not mine.”
Rutger didn’t know the details of what Vlad was up to despite the gossip. If he tried he was sure he could find out, but so long as no one died, there was unlikely to be a major issue. Injuries up to and including the loss of limb was the norm in the life of any swordsman, not just squires.
In truth, he only thought of Mirshea’s blue eyes and felt pressured to support Vlad.
He didn’t know for sure if Vlad was related to Mirshea. When he finally came across Vlad again—Rutger’s odd pathing was finally paying off—he searched for some kind of resemblance to Mirshea that went deeper than how they looked.
There was no way Mirshea would have bowed as readily as Vlad did upon recognising him. Mirshea hadn’t once lowered his head when he met with Rutger years prior. Rutger stopped to look at Vlad, a little entertained by the rising nervous tension in the boy in front of him. There was no way, Rutger thought. They were clearly blood-related, but other than their outward appearance, they didn’t seem related at all in personality.
“Vlad,” Rutger said, causing Vlad to jerk upright. There was a challenge contained in Vlad’s eyes. He was firmly on Joseph’s side, not that Rutger was planning on poaching him. There was no chance he could bring Vlad over to his side.
“Did you enjoy the peanuts I sent?”
There was a flash of defiance and bitterness in Vlad’s eyes. Rutger couldn’t help but grin.
Mirshea was icy cold on a still winter’s day. Mirshea’s presence was one that restricted movement in fear of waking up a monster. In comparison, Vlad was more like a gust of wind that caught Rutger by surprise and nearly had him stumble. Both were unfriendly, and Rutger would rather take his chances with Mirshea. At least it was conditions he could keep his footing in.
“I did enjoy them, my lord.” Vlad was clearly trying to be polite. His face was unnaturally still like it took him a great amount of effort to not be rude. Rutger could almost see the thought of upholding Joseph’s honour run across his mind.
“I can send more, if you like.”
“No, thank you. I prefer whiskey.”
“You’ve already developed an expensive taste,” Rutger said. Like Mirshea, was what went unsaid. He wondered if Joseph had figured out Vlad’s parentage, and if he had already confirmed it.
Of course he had. Joseph would never bring a stranger into the mansion with unknown aims; not like his brother, who had agreed to open the door to the north. If Joseph trusted Vlad, then as far as the brothers’ common interests went, Rutger could also trust him.
“Is Joseph in?” Rutger asked, pointing down the hallway where Joseph’s office was. Vlad only frowned.
“Never mind. I’ll just look.”
Vlad bowed again as Rutger passed by. It wasn’t necessary but likely something Jager told him in case Vlad ran into the Count or Countess. It was better to be excessively polite than slightly rude to a noble.
Joseph was in. Rutger didn’t have to knock as the door was already open, and he pushed it in more. Joseph was sitting at his desk, handing papers over to Vordan; Jager lurked over Joseph’s shoulder, and all three looked at him when he entered.
Joseph narrowed his eyes. He glanced at his knights, who silently left. Unlike his overly-polite squire, Jager didn’t bother with any niceties, his one eye glaring a hole through Rutger’s skull as he and Vordan left the room, the door slamming shut behind them.
“What is it?”
Joseph at least paid Rutger attention. The work in front of him lay neglected as he steepled his fingers, staring at Rutger. He offered no seat nor any tea, likely thinking Rutger sought Joseph out because of the Dragon Slayer Knights.
“Vlad,” Rutger said.
Joseph waited. In a competition that required patience, Rutger would always lose. He grimaced.
“Is he related to…Dragulia?” Rutger kept his voice low.
Joseph’s gaze deepened. He hadn’t met anyone from House Dragulia yet, but the stories of the appearance of hair spun like gold and eyes so frozen they couldn’t shed tears were famous in songs and plays. Merely asking Joseph gave him information Rutger didn’t want Joseph to have, but the question needed to be asked.
This was for Rutger’s peace of mind. He wanted to sleep tonight.
“He doesn’t know his father. He’s an orphan, as far as he’s concerned.”
“I see.” Rutger wanted to leave it at that. Joseph’s calculating gaze was on him, picking him apart.
“Will you tell me why you’ve come all this way to ask?”
Rutger had gone out of his way to be here. He could count on one hand the number of times he went to see Joseph in his office in Sturma, and even less for things Rutger asked for. It was Joseph who looked for Rutger, and Joseph was not prone to wandering so they seldom crossed paths.
If Rutger doesn’t answer, Joseph would upturn everything in Rutger’s life for the reason why. He dreaded it, and these two thoughts had him open his mouth to reply.
“He looks like Lord Mirshea.”
Joseph’s gaze didn’t waver. This was the answer he expected, Rutger guessed, which meant it was the worst possible outcome.
“He’s a boy.”
“I know?”
“He’s also mine. You can’t have him.”
Rutger could only look at Joseph in bemusement. He said, “I know that too.”
“Although he’s a squire under special conditions…if you want him so badly, keep your distance. Wait until the contract expires.”
That’s when it dawned on Rutger what Joseph implied. He stared at Joseph, trying to wrap his head around it. He may think about Mirshea more than he should, but Joseph couldn’t read minds, and Rutger never expressed any interest to anyone.
“Where the hell did you get that idea from?”
Joseph sighed like he was sick of his older brother. Which, Rutger acknowledged, was not an uncommon reaction.
“No one else knows.”
This didn’t mean Rutger was hiding it well. It only meant Joseph could tell because he knew of the nature of their meeting. If anyone else finds out and confronts Rutger on his personal deal with Mirshea—did that mean they would know too?
The only reason why Joseph kept this concealed was to have something on him. The realisation was bleak, Rutger realising too late that Joseph already had a knife to his throat. Joseph was armed, and Rutger was defenseless and asleep.
“Right,” Rutger said to buy time. He grimaced a little, then said, “I’m not interested in Vlad. Not like that.”
Rutger had to turn away from Joseph’s knowing eyes. He was not a religious man, but he considered going to church.
In the end, Rutger didn’t go to church. He believed in his sword, in his men’s abilities, and in the portrait of his mother. If the church’s god was real, then he would find it in the smile the painter had so painstakingly added onto the portrait watching over him.
If there was anyone watching over him, it was his mother. Rutger chose to believe it, trying to scrape influence together in order to secure his position as heir. Compared to Joseph he was in a favourable place; he had both knights and a knighthood. He was on good terms with those under Bayezid, and being the eldest son, most outsiders looking in assumed he would inherit regardless of Joseph’s attempts.
But his father still took the time to point out where he was lacking. During the infrequent times his father paid him attention he was met with criticism on his reports and his handling of interpersonal relationships. Rutger was too informal, according to his father, and too relaxed, and too un-lordly. Rutger could only accept it and duck his head. It was true, and it was his one small act of rebellion.
Mirshea must be how he should act, Rutger thought, but to act so cold was unnatural. He didn’t bother trying.
The white bird tapped at his office window, and Rutger let it in. It was after dusk and Rutger had been just about to head to his bedroom. He told himself he couldn’t let a message be in his office without having read it first, but in reality he knew he was only reading it to hear from Mirshea.
There was no message. Rutger stared at the bird blankly. The box on its leg was empty even though the bird presented its leg proudly, and Rutger couldn’t help but feel disappointment.
He hesitated, grabbed a small sheet of paper, wrote a question down, and folded it up. The bird watched him close the container before it hopped to the window, disappearing into the night.
Rutger didn’t know why Mirshea had sent the bird in the first place if there was no question. He might’ve expected the question Rutger asked him, but if he expected it, then it was almost an admission of guilt. It was that or Mirshea was keeping a closer eye on Bayezid than Rutger initially thought. Maybe he noticed an unusual uptick in activity in the north.
Rutger was tempted to go to Joseph, but he wasn’t ready to admit he was in the wrong yet. With a sigh he left his office, hoping his mother’s gaze would help him sleep.
The bird returned a few days later. It was in the middle of the day, and the bird didn’t tap at the window when it saw Rutger wasn’t alone. Rutger glanced at it when it first appeared but otherwise ignored it. No one else seemed to pay it any mind, and when they left Rutger’s office, the bird popped back in again.
This time there was a message from Mirshea. His answer was plainly written and to the point: he was not responsible for the deathworm nor the events at the monster subjugation camp. Rutger stared at the message, wondering if it was Mirshea’s neat handwriting or someone else’s, before burning the letter.
Mirshea could be lying. Rutger knew this, but as he watched the letter burn, he wanted to believe in him.
Mirshea’s next message had Rutger head to Shoara under the pretext of borrowing knights. It was true he needed manpower, but he did not need to go to Shoara for it, and he certainly knew that was only an excuse to see Joseph. Only he and Dorothea went to save on time.
Rutger sent Dorothea away before he met with Joseph. She gave him a curious look, but Rutger’s grim expression must have set a warning bell off in her head because she without question obeyed, ducking her head and mumbling something about needing to gather supplies.
That was how Joseph and Rutger ended up sitting across from each other, Rutger drinking the tea Joseph offered.
“They’ve left,” Joseph said. Rutger only looked at him confused. Joseph clarified, “Oscar.”
“And the tariffs?”
“Still in place.” Joseph didn’t touch the tea in front of him. Rutger looked down at the liquid, judging it.
“Why did you come here?” Joseph asked. “It’s not for the tea.”
Rutger was cheerful by nature, but the years were robbing him of that. He grimaced, covering the expression by taking another mouthful of too-hot tea and wishing it tasted nice. The Countess rarely gave him tea, and this was better than what she’d ever gifted him.
Rutger only learned about tea after the first meeting with Mirshea. He wondered if Mirshea would laugh at him for taking it so personally.
“I received a request from Lord Mirshea.”
Joseph’s eyes swirled with a depth Rutger only saw in deep chasms in the mountains. There were flashes of anger and pity, and finally Joseph settled on something like satisfaction. In the end, Rutger came to Joseph for help, just as Joseph asked him to do.
It was asked of him. Rutger wanted to fulfill his brother’s request.
“What was it?” Joseph asked.
“He wants access to Bernhem Fortress,” Rutger said. He kept his voice steady. The words lit up Joseph’s eyes like a torch was thrown into the abyss to illuminate it briefly. Joseph glanced down at the tea in front of him as if thinking of throwing it at Rutger’s face.
Rutger would understand if that was the case. He waited.
“So the lindworm is on the move, then.”
“Just as the barbarian said,” Rutger agreed. Joseph was still looking at his teacup. Rutger kept waiting.
When Joseph looked back up at Rutger, Rutger felt his mouth open to answer Joseph’s unspoken question.
“I can’t refuse it outright. They have the imperial authority to enter. If it was a city, it might be different.”
“How long ago did you receive the message?”
“Four days.”
It did not take four days to travel from Sturma to Shoara. Rutger had been putting off replying to Mirshea.
“Tell him not to raise their flag until you arrive,” Joseph said. “What are you going to say if he questions the delay?”
“Bernhem is Bayezid’s pride,” Rutger replied, “so it’s not easy for me to readily give up access.”
Joseph seemed to find his response passable but was not satisfied. He looked back at the tea, finally picking it up and drinking from it. Neither brother had to say it—the lindworm must be killed by a northern sword, not by a central one.
“Also,” Rutger said, a little sheepish, “I’ll need to borrow knights.”
“How many?”
“Just one.”
It might be a mistake to ask for Vlad, knowing Mirshea would be there. But Rutger needed dragon slayers of his own, and Joseph’s calculating nature was picking apart every possible future.
Joseph agreed. Rutger wondered if it was because he’s decided now was the time for Vlad to find out his blood ties—if it was because Vlad would be sheltered by northern knights when he would realise the truth of his ancestry. Joseph was forcing Vlad to remember his circumstances and not be swayed by central.
Joseph always assumed the worst. If they were closer, Rutger would’ve challenged it.
The sight of the Dragon Slayers’ flag on top of the pole at Bernhem became Rutger’s last straw.
His temper had been slowly rising and threatening to boil over as he and his knights, along with Vlad and two troublemakers, came across piles of corpses of slaughtered barbarians on their journey north. Rutger recalled the unpleasant look in Mirshea’s eyes when Rutger had mentioned the barbarians and knew this was his doing.
When he pushed in the doors to his fortress, his fury shielded him from the blast of cold air that came down from above. It was colder inside than it was in the snow outdoors. Rutger gritted his teeth against the blast, looking up to meet a pair of familiar blue eyes.
“You’re finally here,” Mirshea said. He was just as Rutger remembered. Cold and still, not budging from the high place only Rutger was meant to occupy. If Mirshea had not put his flag up—if he had not directly attacked Rutger by putting that damn flag up—Rutger would have given him that spot.
“Get down from there,” Rutger hissed, his teeth groaning under the pressure of his clenched jaw, “before I lose my temper.”
Mirshea wasn’t looking at him. His eyes slid past Rutger, looking at his men behind them. Rutger wanted Mirshea to look only at him.
“I am Mirshea,” he said needlessly, “captain of the Dragon Slayer knights.”
Mirshea didn’t need to introduce himself, not now nor in the past. He did so because he wanted to boast, Rutger thought—but Mirshea was not the only man present who was proud of his bloodline.
“Rutger,” he said, “commander of Bernhem.”
He hated this man, Rutger decided. He should never have accepted the deal.
The dragon’s cold eyes never left him, observing.