The lavish design of my father’s manor does not only apply to the exterior. As we step through the double doors, each made from a single cross-section of tree, I feel no sense of comfort. To either side of the doorway a dozen maids wait in frilly black dresses with white embroidery. Not of the Suntouched family they wear no golden paw on there breast.
They curtsy deeply as we enter earning a hearty laugh from my uncle, I remain silent. I can not fault these women for wanting to find work here or my father for hiring them. But it is only because of how opulent the manor is that so many maids are needed. Properly investing a quarter of the wealth in the main hall alone would be enough to turn a small town into a thriving city.
The floor of the grand foyer is made of sicilian diaspro, its dark red forming an almost ugly contrast with the blues and black of the Sodalite that forms the grand staircase winding its way around the edges of the room to the second floor. Statues carved from precious minerals and embedded with rare stones sit on polished tables of purpleheart and grenadil edged with silver and gold.
Underneath the diamond chandelier hanging in the middle of the room is a man dressed in the same manner as Gerald. The gold paw on his breast marks him a Suntouched and a proper servant of the Beastlord family.
His bow leaves him almost parallel with the floor as he provides his greeting. “Lord Olson, Master Giean, welcome.”
Olson nods, not bothering with the childish jab in my direction. As the next head of the house I should be address as lord not master. The titles all seem pointless to me so I normally would not engage however I happen to recognize this butler in particular. He looks much like his grandfather Gerald but his hair is a dark brown and he keeps his face cleanshaven. Only a couple years older than me we had played in the beast garden together in our training days.
“Greetings Jeramiah,” I say prying a surprised look off the butler’s emotionless face. “We haven’t had the chance to talk since you entered my fathers service. I am happy to see you doing well.”
A bit of red seeps into Jeramiah’s otherwise milky complexion, he coughs slightly as he straightens up. Greeting guest at the door means he is one of the lowest ranking of the Suntouched working for my father. So easily displaying his embarrassment shows that his political maneuvering has not improved since our younger days. To his credit, back then it had been good enough to start a fair number of fights, but that may be more of a comment on my siblings and cousins than on him.
“Will you take us to see my father,” I ask.
“Yes, right away my lords.” Jeramiah replies as he leads us up the grand staircase.
I don’t have to look at my uncle to sense his disapproval. To speak so casually with a servant, as head of his house I doubt my uncle would even talk to a servant lowly enough to wait by the door. But I do not want his approval, nor do I need it. I cannot approve of people who choose to live like this while seeing the state of the villages surrounding the Beastwall.
Jeramiah leads us through the hall furnished with the same level of opulence as the grand foyer. He stops in front of a set of steel double doors, twin phoenixes etched into their surface. Beyond these doors is the room my father had built to mimic the one our ancestors made in the Beast Garden. A room that had been dubbed the tribunal.
“The others are waiting in here my lords.” Jeramiah says with one last bow before he makes his way back down the hall.
My uncle smiles at me before he opens the door and walks in. I stop to take a deep breath before doing the same.
The tribunal sits at odds with the rest of the manor, the entire room made of plain unpolished granite. There are no furnishings, only 6 tiers of granite seating rising around the edge of the room. In the center of the room sits a granite table shaped like a U, directly opposite to the center of the U is a single pedestal. A steel eyebolt juts out of the floor so the person standing there could be chained if necessary.
There are 12 seats at the table but my father’s generation is small. With my uncle Olson taking his seat only 4 of the chairs are filled. Taking my place at the podium I observe my uncles as I wait for my father to speak.
My uncle Meallin sits farthest from my father. Like a skinny version of Olson, he also keeps the hair of his beard and head each in a single braid. He has the same large hazel eyes but they look too large in his narrow expressionless face. He wears a similar black silk tunic as does my father. The only noticeable difference between any of the tunics is the pattern and the shoulder guard on Meallin’s. Sitting on the guard is his phoenix currently in the form of a green falcon.
Next to my father sits my uncle Ivour. He looks more like my father and I with the same angry eyebrows and hair that stick straight up. When I was young, I assumed his angry look was because of those eyebrows like me. However, as I grew older, I learned how obvious his constant anger is from the lines creasing his face and the burning hatred in his deep-set hazel eyes.
His silk robe is blood red with black lace used for the embroidery. He wears no rings but 2 pieces of jet dangle from his ears. There is no bird on his shoulder for he does not have one.
“Nice to see you dressed for the occasion,” Ivour practically spits at me while taking in the abundance of pacts covering my chest.
Before I could even respond my father steps in.
“SILENCE!” he shouts before turning his gaze back to me.
I had been told many times I look like my father. We have the same electric blue eyes and angry looking eyebrows. Our jaw line is similar as well however, his is now covered by a thick beard that, like his hair, has become equal parts white and red. The lines etched into my father’s face along with the pale colour of his skin make me worry for his health. He is the youngest of the brothers but he looks the oldest by far. He has been sick for years and only just recently started to show signs of recovery.
After the outburst my father sits there, showing his power as the head of the family. Enforcing his right to speak first at meeting held in the tribunal. After what feels like a long time my father finally speaks.
“Son why did you bring us here.”
A lump forms in my throat, I have thought about what I would say over the last three days. Practised it over and over again, yet as I stand here facing them my mind goes blank. I failed, no matter what spin I put on it I failed.
I let out a sigh as I stare down at my feet. Looking back up at my father I decide to tell the simple truth.
“I failed to get the pact.”
Olsen and Meallin explode from their chairs. Somehow my father and Ivour manage to maintain some semblance of composure at my words.
My father raised his hand and his brothers return to their chairs if reluctantly.
“What happened?” he asks his voice firm.
I tell them of my meeting with the mother, of finding the nest empty. My encounter with Ken in the woods and about the poachers he had killed. How the dragon had clung to him and when I tried to remove it how I saw the pact. Finally, I told them how the mother had passed this problem onto us.
My story pacifies my uncles but it provides no answers for what to do. I wait for my chance to speak again but before that comes Ivour stands up.
“We cannot let this peasant boy keep such an important pact. The very future depends on this baby dragon to leave it in his hands would be asking for disaster.”
I can’t help but shake my head, “The only way to dissolve a pact is for one party to die, besides-”
“Then we kill him.” Ivour says his voice angry.
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