The Count of Castle Rock

Chapter LV- Lords of the North

Methuen falls, knocking over the bottles and jars balanced on the foot locker provided by Sir Dentsworth. Hans rushes to his side, helping the Count to his feet. His master is shaky on his feet, his pupils dilated.

"My lord, what is wrong?"

"I can't- I will not let her take our Leesa, not like Amy," he whispers. "Not again." Methuen pushes away from Hans and goes to the dresser where a handful of his personal items wait.

"I don't understand. What does this have to do with Leesa?"

Methuen gestures dismissively. "You distract me, boy."

Hans grabs The Count's arm and turns him around, station and power forgotten.

"Look at me! Did you do something to Leesa?"

Methuen stares down at Hans's strong fingers and then slowly raises his gaze to the young man's eyes.

"You are hurting me, boy," Methuen says, his voice suddenly dangerous.

Hans releases him, his cheeks growing warm. "I'm sorry, my lord... I'm just worried."

"No. I was lost in thought and the pain helped me come back."

Methuen takes up a large jade hand mirror, fogs it with his breath, then stares into the distorted reflection. Shapes dance within, but Hans can make no sense of it.

"Our Ms. Talbert is fine for the moment, but she is in grave danger," Methuen explains. "We all are."

"Then we have to do something!" Hans runs to the corner of the great tent where his cot and belongings wait. "I'll pack at once."

"We cannot leave until I meet with Lord Marshal Lawson."

"But, Master-"

"Events begin to feel intertwined." Methuen clears the glass of his mirror and places it face down. "He must be warned."

Someone claps outside and the tent flap opens. Methuen's ghost blades stand as a young squire enters the dimly lit space. Younger than Hans, his youthful features are at odds with his hard eyes. The dents in his armor tell a story of furious fighting and close calls. He glances around until he spots The Count then drops to a knee.

"Lord Methuen, Sir Tathagar is outside, awaiting your convenience." The boy's voice is deeper than Hans expects. The squire is a boy only in appearance.

Hans looks to Methuen; disheveled, tired, distracted. He's never seen The Count like this and it scares him. Even the wild magic moves around the wizard in a distorted pattern. Methuen takes a deep breath, regaining a bit of his composure.

"Come."

The Count grabs a black hat and Cape lands lightly on his shoulders to clasp tightly at his throat. Clearly still angry about being left behind during Methuen's last fateful trip, Cape's movements are less languid and more abrupt. Stepping out into the sun, Methuen's ghost blade follows like a shadow at his back. Hans looks left and right, frantically searching for his new staff. He'd been tasked to carve it from a piece of rare wood known as Godsblessed. Methuen insists the boy work the unexpectedly resistant wood whenever there is time to do so. Now that it is nearly complete, he can't find it.

"Here," T'sai says, handing him the wooden implement.

"Thank you, my friend. I'm suddenly nervous... for myself and for Methuen."

"Keep your thoughts on the moment and not on what is to come."

Hans nods and the two leave the tent. Outside, Sir Andrew Tathagar and the sworn swords at his side kneel before Count Methuen. Hans recognizes some, but others are unknown to him. Without their banners, his rudimentary knowledge of heraldry means nothing. According to custom, the young squire, Morgan as he is addressed, makes formal introductions. When he is finished, Methuen gestures for the knights to rise.