Return of the Stormcriers

CHPATER 45 - THE LOYAL DUKES OF VERDEN

Leonardo Bernoulli gripped the rim of the large, round, wooden table tightly as he counted the minutes until his guests would enter his presence. Situated in one of the palace's many large, formal rooms, this unassuming piece of furniture had seen more than its share of kingdom-altering deliberations in the years since it had been crafted. Kings, dukes, nobles, and foreign dignitaries had gathered around its rich, walnut surface for the last hundred years debating policies and agreements that shaped the history of Verden, but at this moment Bernoulli sat alone, ignoring the silent guards that stood at attention around the edges of his vision, their backs against the walls of the room. Ten large windows set into the walls of the ornate hall refracting watery beams of colored sunlight across the floor and table, dappling the stonework with its soft illumination. Imposing artistic renderings of the nine original dukes, with the window containing the likeness of founding High King Igor alone on the center wall, stared down upon the occupants, passing their silent judgment.

He grumbled in frustration, his nerves too on edge to enjoy this moment he had waited so many years for. They should have been here already; his guards had informed him an hour before that the dukes had arrived at the palace, but they were taking their sweet time to get to the meeting chambers. They wanted him to realize they did not respect him; he was a steward, not a king and they would treat him as such. He would have to impress them with his leadership; and show them that he was worthy of the position he had fought so hard for.

For the hundredth time that morning, Bernoulli turned his gaze to his silk shirt, checking for any blemishes and smoothing away even the smallest of wrinkles before they could form. He placed his hands upon the table, twisting his palms skyward and then back down, gauging which would be the best angle to allow the new scar that stretched across his forearm to be seen by others who would sit around the table. He needed the dukes to know that he had bled for Verden; when was the last time any of them had done that? He frowned at the reddish tint of his hands as he stared at them.

It is just the light from the stained glass, he reassured himself uncertainly as he rubbed his thumb against his fingertips. It had been this way since the night of the attack; since the night he had killed that guard. A thousand times he must have washed his hands since that moment, scrubbing the man's blood from his hands until his skin was red and raw, but still, he saw the stains; as if the murdered man had left a permanent memorial upon his killer's body. Bernoulli glared at his skin as if he could force it clean from the intensity of his gaze. He had done what he had to do and felt no remorse for his actions nor did the look of confused betrayal in the face of the guard hang before him in his dreams most nights before he found troubled sleep. But if others could see it; if they could guess what he had done, everything he had built would crumble beneath his feet.

He leaned over the table until his nose nearly brushed against its wooden surface, mouthing the mantra he repeated every time he felt this way, "You are the lawful ruler of Verden. Nathan will be found. Alexander will be found. You will lead the kingdom to greatness." He repeated it to himself over and over, visualizing every word until it was as clear in his mind as a vision—everything he had ever wanted.

He straightened nervously in his seat as the two massive oak doors that served as the main entrance into the hall were pulled inward by the armored attendants eliciting loud creaks and groans of movement as their ancient hinges groaned under their emended weight. A bald, burly man strode purposefully into the room, his hard, dark eyes surveying the interior with unflinching severity. He was flanked closely by two stoic guards, proudly sporting the detailed crest of Klippéfell on the chest plates of their armor, which depicted a likeness of the tall rocky crags the province was known for.

  "Duke Von Oden," Bernoulli said as graciously as he could manage, rising from his seat not in reverence, but with enough respect that the nobleman would not believe that the steward meant to lord his position over him. He hoped to show more power with his feigned magnanimity than in imitating the open hostility displayed by the dukes.