The Count of Castle Rock

Chapter LIII- The Snake and The Bowl

Two days. It only took two days in Lord Marshal Lawson's camp for Hans to miss Castle Black Roost. He'd only been back for about two weeks before Count Methuen insisted on traveling east to speak with Lord Lawson personally. His master had shown quite a bit of restraint when dealing with Sir Corngrove, but it was obvious to everyone that his patience was slipping. Coming to the border camp is Methuen's way of compromising because he wants nothing more than to turn Sir Corngrove into a newt. Hans heard him say so himself... multiple times.

Hans yawns as he steps out into the morning light, stretching his limbs stiff from another night on the cots provided by Sir Dentworth's staff. He looks around, taking in the sights and sounds. The Tolkien River forms the border between Dead Swamp and High Mountain, the lands west of the waters being the widest expanse of fen and scarred earth in all The Badlands. Muddy leagues are peppered with sudden dips into crevasses deep enough to swallow an entire wagon train whole. What patches of green that manage to exist in the crag lands are surrounded by forests of haphazardly arrayed jutting rocks.

The place is naturally inhospitable. The Lord Marshal's camp sits atop a plateau that commands a view of the border for miles. Cramming thousands of soldiers and hundreds of horses into such limited space created a crush of humanity reminiscent of Du'Shadrak. Somehow the camp lacks the order of the coastal city and manages to smell worse. Despite all of these things, it is Count Methuen who is making things unbearable.

Seeing Thaddeus when they arrived at the camp was quite the pleasant surprise. Seeing the merchant's son dressed as a soldier was sobering. Hans knew many of the young men and women he grew up with had been conscripted, but he didn't expect to see any. Just before Tad left to fulfill some duty or another, he'd told Hans there was something he had to tell him. The young man's grave expression had filled Hans with concern. That was two days ago and neither Hans nor Thaddeus had found time to speak again, adding stress to his misery.

That is why Hans woke up early. He sorely craves a break from his master and a chance to track down his friend.

"You're awake," Count Methuen grumbles as he steps out of the tent. He doesn't acknowledge the rude oath that slips out of his apprentice's mouth. "We can start your lessons early today."

"Master, I was hoping to run an errand or two before we get started. I can go and be-"

"No. We will practice, then, if there is time, you can worry about your errands." Methuen disappears into the confines of the huge tent, leaving Hans to seethe.

Byrghir wanders over and nudges his leg.

"Yeah, yeah. It's for my own good. You know he's doing this to punish me for going to Sour Downs to rescue him."

"Bleat."

"Obviously you're still on his side." Hans groans. "You're mad that I didn't take you me." With a sigh, Hans goes back inside.

For two hours Methuen forces Hans to stare at a candle wick, while he drones on about the nature of creation. At first the objective seems impossible. The wick won't cooperate and the wild magic is hungry. Hans burns himself numerous times without creating the barest wisp of smoke. It takes a few painful tries before Hans realizes that he is distracted, not only by his eagerness to speak with Thaddeus but by The Count's boring lecture. When he finally finds clarity, Hans has to laugh at himself.

Tuning out the disruptive thoughts, Hans rubs two strands of wild magic entwined with the wick until it bursts into flames. Methuen scoffs and snuffs out the fire with a look and orders the apprentice to do it again. This time he changes the topic of his lecture to popular dances of The King's court. Hans blocks out his words and once more sets the candle wick ablaze. In response, Methuen puts out the fire and orders it done again. And again. And again.