It wasn’t. After eight years of sporadic visits, and whispers of what had happened in the delta, the same people who had once viewed Vulfram as a member of their extended family now eyed him with dubious expressions as he rode through the township. They seemed friendly enough, offering smiles and salutations, but he could read the fear and uncertainty in their stares. He was no longer Vulfram Mori, son of Soleh and Ibis, no longer the gentle man who loved children and helped build many of the cottages that dotted the township’s inner sanctum. Now he was Lord Commander Mori, imposing leader of Karak’s Army, come to implement the Divinity’s justice. He thought of Darkfall, the giant broadsword sheathed on his back that would carry out that justice if need be, and decided that the people were right to fear him. The thought of what he might have to do to his own girl wracked him with a special kind of anguish, no matter how unlikely it was she’d done something terrible enough to warrant such a punishment. Sometimes he hated so much that King Vaelor had thrust this title upon him.
Ignoring the suspicious looks, he pulled on the reins and nudged his mare faster. More cottages and larger chalets passed him on either side. They were packed so tightly together that elaborate gardens edged by dogwood trees were grown between them to give the residents a semblance of privacy. The sight of so many homes made Vulfram feel decidedly less at home. It had only been a few months since his last visit, yet over that short span his childhood village seemed to have grown and changed.
Finally Mori Manor appeared before him. The thick pine logs that formed the outside of the manor were stained a deep shade of reddish brown. The door was painted lavender, a color of which his mother had long been fond. It was the largest structure in the township, stretched out so wide it filled nearly all his peripheral vision. Vegetable and fruit gardens dotted the quad, and the peach tree Vulfram had planted when he was ten years old grew to the left of the front walk, looking decidedly taller than the last time he’d laid eyes on it. His heart warmed despite the dire nature of his visit, for at least some things in Erznia would never change.
The front door creaked open as he tethered his horse to the thick post in front of the walk. He glanced up, and there she stood-Yenge, his wife of nineteen years, resplendent in a simple yellow country dress that clung to a body still supple even after birthing and feeding three children. As Vulfram approached, his gaze moved over the curve of her breasts to the soft nub of her chin, the plumpness of her cheeks, and those blue eyes that seemed to glow against the backdrop of her tanned skin. Her hair was dark and uncontrollably wavy, hanging to the middle of her back. She’d been twenty-five when he’d left to fulfill his duty to Karak, and the only sign that she’d aged a day since then were the tired lines that had sprouted from the corners of her eyes. Vulfram felt his insides tremble, thinking of the last night he’d spent in Erznia-the kisses he and Yenge had shared-and smiled.
Yenge didn’t return his smile. Her expression was nervous as she scraped her teeth against her lower lip. He hadn’t seen her this way since they’d discovered problems with the health of their youngest child, Caleigh, in the hours after the girl’s birth.
His hands found hers as he climbed the steps. There were tears in her eyes. She didn’t say a word to him as he gently placed his lips against hers; her response was to kiss him back slowly and then wrap her arms around him.
“I’ve missed you,” Yenge said as the kiss ended.
“As have I you,” he whispered. He tipped his shaved head so that it rested in the nape of her neck. She smelled of honey and flour. “Did you receive my letter?”
“I did, yesterday.”
“And you told the Magister that I was coming?”
Her eyes dropped. She sniffled but kept her composure. “Yes, Magister Wentner is in the courtyard with the offenders…and others.”
He stepped back. “Offenders? Lyana was not alone when she broke Karak’s law?”
“No, my love. There is another. Kristof Renson. The boy’s father and mother await you as well.”
“Kristof? The boy is what-fourteen? What could these two have done to draw the ire of the Magister worthy of a Minister’s delegate?”
Yenge sniffled again. “I’ve been told not to tell you, my love. I’m truly sorry.”
“Wentner’s instructions?”
Her downcast eyes were answer enough. Vulfram grunted, furious the Magister hadn’t thought to contact him personally regarding the matter. He was the girl’s father, for Karak’s sake, as well as Lord Commander and one of the Divinity’s most loyal servants. If anyone should have been trusted, it was he.
The interior of the manor looked much like he remembered it, with its open rooms, rustic wood floor, and log walls. Lavish furniture filled the vast spaces, gifts bestowed on his family by the greatest craftsmen in Neldar. The candelabras placed in each crevasse were ornate creations, looping rods of silver and gold that held six candles apiece. But Vulfram forgot them even as he saw them. Nothing could remain on his mind except his daughter.
He stormed through the arched portal cut into the limestone wall of the interior square of the manor, the only part of the dwelling not made of felled trees. The courtyard was vast-two hundred feet in either direction-and surrounded on all by sides by four thick walls. When he was a boy, Vulfram played in this open space with Kayne and Lilah, pretending to fight dragons, giants, and demons from the underworld, thrusting wooden swords at his brother and sister lions while they leapt around him.
Now, all that youthful innocence of the courtyard was gone. In its place were a great many people milling about, all wearing dire expressions. He saw his brother Ulric’s wife, Dimona, and her three children. Here also was his other brother, Oris, former servant of the City Watch under Vulfram, his lower jaw and neck rippling with red scar tissue, an injury from when he’d rescued three whores trapped in a burning brothel. Oris’s wife, Ebbe, a woman with skin as tan as Yenge’s and tightly knotted hair, stood at her husband’s side. She was tall and proud, exuding strength and an intensity of faith. Their two children huddled behind her flowing sarong, which was painted with sunflowers. To their right was Broward Renson, young Kristof’s grandfather, born on the same day as Vulfram; they had been best friends since they were toddlers playing at being adults, with fake wine to drink and blunted sticks for spears. The man looked much older than Vulfram, carrying the weight of all his sixty-seven years on his broad shoulders. Broward’s son, Bracken, stood next to him, along with Bracken’s wife, Penelope. Every member of the Renson family looked tense and fidgety, Bracken in particular. The man chewed on his fingernails as if they were kernels of sweet corn.
Beyond the gathered crowd knelt two young people, shackled to a concrete slab. Vulfram’s heart dropped when he saw Lyana, his precious little daughter. Just like the town, she seemed to have grown so much since last he saw her. She looked almost an adult, as stunning as her mother, possessing the same blue eyes and untamable hair. But instead of a beautiful, carefree girl, she was presented to him as a broken woman, her lips and cheeks painted like those of a whore. She was dressed in a plain canvas kirtle-prisoner’s attire-that was covered with splotches of dirt. Beside her knelt Kristof, his sandy hair as filthy as straw in a horse’s pen, his eyes closed and his hands clenched before him as his whole body shivered. His kirtle, nearly identical to Lyana’s, was coated with fresh, glistening blood.