Duke Thomas did not linger long in the audience chambers after Father Hough’s hasty departure. His own generally serene mood shattered by the priest’s request, he’d excused himself as best he could, refusing the concerned entreaties of his steward. Thankfully, Thalberg had not pressed him, and had been understanding when Thomas had told him that he would be retiring early for the evening.
It had not taken him long to return to his private chambers. He made sure his guard understood to allow no one entrance, as he did not think he could deal with any visitors. Not after listening to the priest. The very thought of the priest’s words made his flesh shiver again. He had to hold his hands to his head to get it to stop.
Sitting upon the side of his bed, Thomas did his best to calm himself down. His meal sat heavily in his stomach, though he knew that would pass. But the images that filled his mind, the flashing desultory images of hooves stamping upon the boy priest’s face to running down that interloper Egland, or to seeing Povunoth sold to a farmer down South, would not go away.
He knew he could do none of those things. Father Hough and Sir Egland meant well, even if they were wrong about what must be done. And he could never ask Dame Bryonoth to give up Povunoth, the horse she’d brought from the clan of her family all the way from the Steppe. That sort of attachment was not one he ever had the heart to break, no matter how he wished she would spend her attention on him instead.
All the while, he could not help but ponder what had been upon his mind all that day already. Dame Bryonoth had told him last night that if he only willed it, he would never have to go back. What had she meant? He did not allow himself to speculate though. He wanted her to tell him what it was, and she would do so that very night! The thought of her hand upon his hide, currying him, fitting him once more for shoes made him smile, the tension leaving him as he did.
Laying back upon his bed, the soft velvet caressing him, he wished it were her brushes and combs, her fingers even that were bringing him such comfort. With Bryonoth, he simply had to be, no more. She would take care of all the rest. Comforted by such thoughts, the Duke of Metamor lay upon his bed, eyes closed, remembering all the pleasant things he’d felt that last night, and the many that had come before it.
His hands began to rub at each other, feeling the slight perturbations in his hoof-like nails. There were small notches that had not completely filled in when he’d changed back to his half-human form last night. They were the marks of having worn horseshoes. Upon the hooves he bore for feet they were more pronounced. Were it not for a slight change in the size of those hooves when he shifted, Dame Bryonoth could likely have left those two in. Smiling, he reached down and felt along those holes, half imagining that he still bore the shoe there. But of course, all he felt was his solid hooves, with the holes hammered into each.
His ears turned then, as there was the sound of voices at his doorway. Sighing, he lay spread-eagled upon his bed, wishing that whoever it was would leave him alone. It was clear that his guards were doing as instructed, preventing whoever sought entry from disturbing him. At least there was that.
But then the voices stopped, and there was a pounding upon his door. “Father,” Malisa’s voice called through the door. “May I come in?”
Thomas sighed a bit and pulled himself from his bed. He straightened his tunic and strode to the door. He could not refuse his adopted daughter entry. And as she was also now his Prime Minister, there could indeed be a very good reason for her needing to see them, a crisis perhaps. He did not want to have to deal with those, but for the nonce, he had little choice.
He opened the door to find Malisa dressed in her usual tunic and breeches, much like a man might. She had never truly accepted being female, and he never had pressured her too. Though he cared for her a great deal, he was not truly her father and that would always be between them.
“Welcome, Malisa,” Thomas said, smiling to her. “Please come in.”
“Thank you,” Malisa nodded her head and smiled in return, stepping through the room. Her eyes narrowed when she caught a glimpse at the dishevelled state of his bed, but did not say anything. “Perhaps we should share some wine, I thought we might talk for a bit.”
Thomas nodded at that, wishing now that he had not let her in. But what was done was done, he’d have to live with it. “Yes, wine would be good.” She went to his cupboard to fetch a bottle and a couple goblets while he sat down in his cushioned chair. She took a seat along one corner, setting the goblets down. She poured but a finger’s width of the bubbly yellow libation within each cup, but it was only to begin.
“What is on your mind?” Thomas asked, cradling his goblet between his fingers, though he did not sip from it.
Malisa took a deep breath, her face quite solid though weary from her duties. “Several things, but mostly one thing really. I am concerned with the rebuilding of relations to the South, a task that has been complicated on an almost daily basis. After the assault this winter, many of the southern baronies are becoming more independent minded. It doesn’t help that Kelewair is trying to woo their fealty with promises of favourable trade. Their access to ores is limited thankfully, which has kept them from forsaking their fealty to Metamor so far. But after we called the banners to repel the attack, many have begun to chafe under that fealty.”
She swirled her wine in her goblet a bit. “After the curses, they did not leave because they did not feel personally threatened I suppose. But after calling the banners...” she paused and took a sip from the wine, a sip that turned into a long draught.
Thomas sipped his own then, his voice low. “They fear that I may call them again, and this time, for more than a few days. They fear that by remaining loyal to Metamor, the curse may take them too.”
“Aye,” Malisa nodded. “That is what they fear. That is why they are willing to even entertain entreaties from Kelewair. Giftum has been the worst, but they have always played both sides, but now Komley and Sorin have done so as well. We cannot afford to become so isolated. Nasoj is not our only enemy. They all need to know that Metamor will endure and continue to protect their interests. We need both men and money, and one other thing.”
Thomas finished off the wine in his goblet and set it upon the table. “What of Joy’s Legacy? Once we are able to mine the mithril there we should have money enough.”
Malisa nodded. “Yes, though we have kept it fairly quiet to prevent foreign ears from seeking to undermine us more quickly. But to put the crews into place to produce any wealth from the mine will take a long time in secret. To move more quickly would risk exposure, and in our weakened state, it is a terrible risk.”
“But once it flows, we will be strong again. And with the wealth that mithril will bring, we could hire the men we need,” Thomas mused. While certainly what Malisa said was serious, he was thankful that so far, there was little to it that did not require any weighty decisions on his part.
“Truly. But we should not depend solely upon that hope. Trade with some of the northern cities is coming back, but slowly. It is not enough, though it will help for the moment. But even if we are to solve these problems, there is always one other issue that hangs over our heads and cannot be solved by mithril.”
Thomas poured himself some more wine then. It’s taste was comforting, the warmth filling him, as if he were being massaged form the inside. “And what is this other issue?”
Malisa sighed then, meeting his gaze, her eyes full of sympathy. “Your succession.”
Thomas nearly spilled the wine. “My what?”
“Your succession, father. We both know that I cannot succeed you. Had I been born to a noble house, perhaps the other lords would accept my adoption. But I was born common. For all of your charities in elevating me to this station, the lords South of the Valley will never accept me, and even some of the Lords in the valley may take umbrage at my becoming a Duchess after you pass on. They will accept me as Prime Minister, but they will never accept me as anything more. Without a true legitimate heir, what will happen when you die?”
The horse lord sat quietly, his hoof-like hands clutching at the goblet tightly. “I could always appoint a successor from amongst the Lords.”
“But who?” Malisa asked. “Lord Barnhardt? Lord Avery? Both are probably the finest men you could select, but both would have a fight on their hands. Can you not imagine Giftum receiving aid from Kelewair in the form of soldiers, taking control of the Northern Midlands in the ensuing chaos? Once the Baron has control, he’d appoint himself Duke, and then swear fealty to Kelewair, totally dissolving the power of Metamor. And with the curse still active, you know Duke Verdane would turn this city into a penal outpost. Can you not see this happening should you die?”
Thomas took a deep breath. “I thought that Duke Verdane was an ardent Follower. Why would he support Jaran Calephas who is an ardent Lothanasi?” Although Jaran was the younger brother of Garadan Calephas, the despicable ruler of Arabarb, he did not share his elder brother’s zeal for debauchery in any form. His relationship with Metamor was also aided by the fact that Jaran had been responsible for deposing his brother once Garadan’s collusion with Nasoj revealed, as well as his sins, at which point he’d been excommunicated by the Lothanasi.
“Verdane is more interested in his own power than that of the Ecclesia’s,” Malisa reminded gently. “And yes, Jaran does not have the same soul for treachery that his father, and certainly his brother had, but his chief concern has always been for Giftum. If he thinks that he can secure Giftum as the premier power in the Northern Midlands, he will.”
“So you feel I need an heir to prevent that,” Thomas said, the words stinging his tongue. This was not the first time some one had brought this matter up wit him. Thalberg had often spoken with him about arranging a marriage between himself and some noble lady, a daughter of one of the Lords to the South usually. But each time, Thomas had demurred, or the nobles to the South wouldn’t allow their daughter to wed a horse, no matter how powerful the horse.
“Yes, I do,” Malisa poured herself more wine then. “You know it as well, father. You are still young, you have many years left to your rule, or so we hope. But illness can strike, or an accident, or even an assassin. You were very nearly killed during the assault, and then you were abducted for a time. If you have an heir, several in fact, then the power of Metamor is assured for another generation.”
Thomas could only nod and sip at his wine. He’d always known this would happen eventually. Before the fall of the curses, it had not seemed as bad, simply part of being a noble. But now that he had become a horse, he dreaded the thought of sharing his bed. If Thalberg had his way, he would wed one of the noble daughters at the southern end of his demesnes, a woman who had learned to fear and hate the curse and those afflicted. She would hate him for bringing the curse down upon her, and she would be the one he had to spend the rest of his life with. How could he want that?
“Besides,” Malisa said at last, offering him a reassuring look. “You need the companionship. The strain of your role has worn on you, we have all seen it. You spend more time alone in these rooms than ever before. You have become so worn by it that you would even shout at a priest.” Thomas tensed at that, remembering once again his meeting with Father Hough. “A wife could relieve you of that, some one who could bear the burdens with you. It doesn’t just have to be to breed an heir, father. It can be for your happiness too.”
“How?” Thomas asked then, bitterness beginning to seep into his voice. “How could it be for my happiness? Whoever I wed would hate me for bringing them to Metamor, and cursing them. They would lie with me, I half an animal. It would make them feel filthy, and they would hate me for it. No comfort would I find there. No relief, only more agony. And what if she became a man? Would I then dissolve the arrangements after it is too late for them? Or a child so young they cannot bear a child? What shall I do for them to make recompense?”
Malisa frowned, nodding all the while he spoke. “I do not think that they dissolving an engagement if they should become a man would be considered too dire an insult. In fact, the family may thank you for it for providing them with a new son. And if they become a child too young to bear children, some other arrangement could be made, some recompense given. All of this could be worked out in advance to an engagement, father. And if Murikeer’s vein of mithril is even half as bountiful as he claimed and our surveys have suggested, what family will not be willing to take that risk?”
“But won’t they still hate me, even if it does work out?” Thomas asked, clutching the goblet so tight he was sure it would break. But it was made of firmer material and held together.
“Perhaps for a time. But if you woo them, even hate can melt. You would have to show them that despite appearing like a horse, you are still a man inside, a kind and gentle man who is capable of a great deal of love. Yes, it may be hard at first, but it doesn’t have to be forever.”
Thomas did not speak, merely sipping at his wine. These were the concerns he had no wish to deal with. Why did he have to have such responsibility? Why must he be saddled with it? Why couldn’t another take it from him, and let him just be?
Seeing that the horse lord was musing on these things, Malisa continued. “Once you have an heir, and Metamor’s position is reestablished, we can find other ways to tie the southern lands to us, to keep their fealty strong. I suggest we renew the practice of wards. Bring up their children here in the valley amongst the various lords. It would do them well to learn to love their cursed fellows to the North, though let them return to their own lands before the curse would take them. After a generation of that, your own heir would find it far easier to rule than you, and the whole of the Northern Midlands would be the stronger for it. Perhaps we could even bring Starven or Politzen to swear fealty to you, or your heir in that time.”
“You bring,” Thomas finally said, his voice tired, “some interesting possibilities to light. Would it not be easier for me to wed someone already cursed?”
Malisa nodded. “Yes, it would. But your ties with the noble houses so cursed are already strong.”
“They were not so strong with the house of Loriod,” Thomas pointed out.
“Loriod was a power hungry fool. Clever perhaps, but a fool. We are better off without him.”
“True, but how many amongst the lords are like Loriod even in a small part?” Thomas asked, though not sure why. “Why should I have to wed with any of them?”
“That is not something we can deal with at this time. We must do the best with what we have.” Malisa finished her goblet, but did not pour herself any more.
Thomas let out a long sigh and finished his own. “I will think on this, but I do not know when I can give you an answer. Was there anything else you had on your mind, Malisa?”
“No, father, that was all.” She rose from her seat slowly. “I will give you some privacy to think on this. But please, think on this.” She gripped the neck of the wine bottle and took both goblets in her other hand. Thomas nodded slowly to her, offering her a slight smile. She returned it, and then put the wine bottle and goblets back in their cupboard. “Would you like me to ask to have your dinner brought up here?”
“Yes,” Thomas said, forcing himself to rise from his seat. “Thank you, Malisa,” he nodded his long head, trying to still the trembling that was beginning to return to his flesh.
Malisa returned the nod, hers deeper, and then left once more, closing the door quietly on her way out. The horse lord remained standing for several moments, waiting until he was sure that she was gone, and that the guards were once more merely standing at their posts. He then stiffly walked back to his bed and flung himself atop it, pressing his face into the pillows, body shivering with agony. He didn’t want this, any of it! His only wish then was to turn the hours by faster so that he could be with Dame Bryonoth all the sooner. She could soothe him. She was the only one who could.
Instead, Thomas had to wait for the rest of the day. Face pressed into the pillows, the Duke of Metamor cried, sobbing with his whole body.
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