Excerpt: Warden's Blade (working)

The claustrophobic feeling of the den was only heightened by the huge grandfather clock and antique desk that seemed to swallow every extra square inch of space in the room. In a chair near the center of the room sat a young man, barely past his twenty-fifth year, cradling a bundle in his arms. His head was bowed low, and the faint flickering light from the gas lantern on the wall shrouded his features and hid the tears that streamed down his face.

A deep tone emanated from the grandfather clock as the hands touched on midnight. The sound reverberated in the room, echoing off the painted walls and making the whole chamber seem to vibrate with its intensity. The bundle in the man's arms began to cry, the child squalling its displeasure at the sound that had woken it from its slumber.

As the clock tolled for the twelfth time and the sound began to fade away, the man gently hushed the child through his tears. When he looked up once more, a figure stood in the doorway of the den, cloaked from head to toe in deep brown and blue, deeply shadowed by the same dim gas lantern.

"Brother Aramic," the man in the center of the room said, his voice thick with suppressed grief. "You've arrived, I see."

The figure in the doorway took one step into the room and pulled back the brown leather hood that shrouded his features to reveal a middle-aged man with the first hints of grey in his thick dark hair and beard, with pale blue eyes that were at the same time kind and firm. "I have come for the children, as we discussed, Lord Volrath."

The young man clutched the bundle to his chest even as the baby continued to cry quietly. "You cannot have him, Aramic," the young lord whispered. "He is all that I have left. Would you take from me my only son, only a year after my dear father has passed to the Otherworld, and on the same night that the same cursed afterlife has claimed my dearest Maria?"

Aramic's eyes narrowed. "Your only son? There were to be two."

"The second child never quickened," Lord Volrath whispered. "He never drew a single breath, but it was his birth that stole away my Maria."

Aramic's eyes hardened for a moment with suspicion, but it quickly faded to compassion mixed thickly with disappointment. "I am very sorry for your losses, Darrin. Maria was a fine woman, and her soul shall speed quickly to the Otherworld with that of your younger son."

"You cannot take my son from me," the lord sobbed. "You cannot have him."

"There is nothing to be done, lad," Aramic said quietly. "I must take the child with me. You know that a child born on the Blessed Night must be carried from all rank and privilege and taken to a place where they can grow up honest and pure. You know all too well what the consequence can be for those Blessed who are raised with easy power and wealth."

Almost unbidden, the Lord Volrath stole a glance at the row of portraits on the wall. His father was there, glaring sternly out at the world, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, along with their wives and many of their children. One portrait placing stood conspicuously empty, and the young lord shuddered involuntarily.

"Surely, there must be another way," Lord volrath asked, looking up at the aging Brother with a spark of hope in his eyes. It quickly flickered and faded as he saw the expression on the elder man's face.

"I am sorry, Darrin," Aramic said gravely. "There is nothing that can be done."
The young lord heaved a sigh. The wetness on his face glistened in the light from the gas lantern mounted on the wall.

"May I at least name the child?" Lord Volrath asked.

Aramic paused for a moment, tempted to deny the child even this small link to his privileged origin. After a moment, though, his compassion outweighed the idea, and he gave a small nod to the grief-stricken lord.

Lord Volrath leaned over the bundle and whispered something in its ear.

At that very moment, the storm which had been gathering outside all evening broke at last with a flash of lightning, and rain began to pour from the heavens down upon the streets of Erudaire.

"Very well," he whispered, holding up the bundle towards the doorway.

Before the young lord could change his mind once more, Aramic swooped in and gathered the child into his arms, and then took a significant step backwards. "We may all be thankful that this fork of the prophecy is false, but I am truly sorry for all of this, Darrin. If all goes well, you may one day meet your son again."

"But as a Warden, which means that I can never acknowledge him as my own son." The young lord's tone had turned bitter, resentful now, and Aramic knew that it was quickly becoming time to leave.

"I promise you that he will be safe," Aramic said, pulling his hood back up from where it had fallen across his back.

With that, the old Warden turned and vanished, with the child, into the night.

Slowly, the Lord Volrath rose from his place in the den. His face blank and pale, he left through the same doorway that the Warden had used to kidnap his son, and slowly made his way through the halls of his great estate. The lanterns on the walls were turned to their lowest setting without allowing them to go out, and through the gloom he took step after step, feeling as though everything were drained from him.

As he passed across the skywalk that led to the chambers which had been inhabited by his wife, Maria, lightning flashed again, casting colors against him and the wall through the massive stained-glass windows on the back of the house. He could see the images crafted there, the pictures of ancient legends and ancient Gods depicted by master glass-artists only for a split second, and still he slogged on through the hallways.

Finally, he opened the door that led to the nursery. Inside, the lanterns were burning brighter than he'd left them. He deliberately avoided looking at the corner of the room where his dear Maria lay, but was greeted exuberantly by the midwife.

"My lord! The child lives!" she cried happily, holding up the tiny second child, the one whose troubled birth had stolen away the life's blood of his dearest Maria. The child coughed weakly and stared at him, looking into his green eyes with its own deep blue ones.

For an instant, Lord Volrath considered sweeping the child into his arms and rushing after the Warden, his hatred for the child for stealing away his dearest wife almost overwhelming him. In the next moment, though, he knew that tis would give him the very thing he'd wanted.

"We must have a celebration!" the midwife cried, spinning the child around in her arms merrily, the joy of the living child for the moment overshadowing the grief of the lost Lady. "The new Lord Volrath is born! What will you call him, my lord?"

"Thank you, Melanie," the young lord said, taking the child from her. "His name will be Leonidas Volrath, after my grandfather."

"That's wonderful, my lord," the young midwife said, and turned towards the door. "I will go alert the household and tell them that we have a new addition!"

Melanie felt a sharp pain in her back and looked down to see something small and silver protruding from the front of her already blood-stained dress. She tried to gasp, but she could not seem to catch her breath.

She collapsed to the ground, struggling to breathe as blood poured from her onto the floor. The girl looked upward to see the lord standing over her, holding a red-stained knife in one hand, the child in the other.

"I'm sorry, Melanie, but no one can ever know that this child was born tonight. I know you would have been good and promised not to tell anyone, but I cannot allow anyone to ever know that this child belongs to myself and my Maria." The lord's voice was soft, but it seemed as though all the warmth she'd ever known him to have was gone in a moment. She tried to whisper something to him, but she just somehow could not find her voice.

Darrin Volrath looked down at the poor midwife as she lay on the floor, and at last she shuddered and gave her last breath. The child in his arms began to cry softly.

"I'm sorry, little one," the lord whispered to the infant. He looked over at the bed where his poor Maria lay, her eyes staring blankly at the wall. He placed the knife on a small table by the door, and went to his wife's bedside. With his blood-stained hand, gently he closed her eyes so that they no longer stared. "Forgive me, my Maria. I want our child to be safe, and if he is to be safe and remain here with me, he must remain a secret for now."

The lord leaned down and kissed his wife's cool forehead. He dropped the knife on the floor next to the dead midwife and opened the door. With one last, longing look at the bloodstained bed, he disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.