Sunset on the Orchards

Prologue: The State of an Earl

The Earl was a man of great wealth, but the sapphires, wines, coins, and constant attendance by servants did nothing for his health. While once fierce ambition and fiery passion had filled his vibrant blue eyes, they were now clouded with the milky glaze of indifference, confusion, and impending blindness. His hair trailed -- bedraggled -- down his shoulders, greasy, matted, and grey. On his throne of carved mahogany, in the dark of the palace's great wooden hall, he hunched over. His back arched, as if broken and beaten by the implements of a mob. No one else was in the hall, just the Earl and the sun beams spilling through the windows of stained glass. Dust motes drifted across the room, some settling on the untouched feast before the Earl. The cheeses, wines, meats, and breads did not tempt him as they did younger people; his appetite had soured and faded long ago. The years of managing the tangled spider's web of alliances, trade agreements, and pacts, had slowed his mind as if molasses had found its way into his mind. Or, as the servants often whispered, as if a strange parasite had been sapping his wit over the course of his life of plenty. The Earl's younger brother threw open the large wooden doors, briefly revealing rows of armored guards, their armor shining in the bright sun, rows of orchards under a pure blue sky behind them. Then the door slammed shut, and the view was gone. The Earl's head tilted up, slowly, anciently. The fickle light revealed the deep pits in which his eyes sat, the surrounding skin gaunt, sallow, and pockmarked. He spied his younger brother and took a second that felt like an eternity to recognize him. His brother walked the length of the hall in a brisk, lively stride. The life in him was obvious, appearing as the antithesis of his aged and weathered brother. His hair glossy and brown, eyes open and fierce, and mind clear, he spoke. "Greetings Silvester, I come to inform you--" He was cut short as a loud and broken rasp came from the Earl "That's Earl Wylmot to you and everyone else on this damned island, regardless of status! You should know that, having served me these seven years past! You layabout, you worm! You ought be ashamed, forgetting my title! Mine! The elder brother who actually worked to build an empire while you whittled your time away chasing after an imagined wife! Lay at my feet and beg for my favor, you dog, you disrespectful mongrel! I ought disown you, toss you on the next ship! I ought--" Earl Wylmot dissolved into a fit of coughing, the only thing that could halt his abuse. Wylmot the younger bowed on his knees, barely disguising a scowl and the pure malice in his expression, but groveling nevertheless. He gritted his teeth and got it over with. "Your grace, Earl of The Thriviland Archipelago, Wylmot the elder, leader of men and slayer of great beasts, forgive my foolish forgetfulness, for I come bearing news from the Duke of The Emerald Isles. Important and lengthy it is, so please, do summon a scribe. It would be preferable to have it recorded, lest our memories fail." The younger spoke his piece, head bowed and expression falsely servile. A small smile crossed the Earl's face, the kind which hints at savage pleasure, rather than innocent kindness. "That's the brother I know. Properly subservient, entirely willing in his subjection and service. I do suppose, a scribe is needed. Who is this Duke? Do I owe him? Is he an ally to our enterprises?" The elder declared and asked, the outside sunlight shifting and casting strange shadows across his features. The younger rose slightly and answered, in the same falsely meek tone "The Duke of The Emerald Isles, Duke Archibald Abaline, has long been a friend to our budding empire. He is the life-giving sap of the apple tree, as it grows to touch the stars and heavens on high. He is the sun that lets it bear fruit and the roots that anchor it into reality. A third of the men here once served him, and he owns half the ships riding the trade winds through the sight of the forts of these fair islands. But, before the news is given, have you not summoned a scribe to this hall? I doubt you would wish my breath wasted when there is not ink, quill, and parchment to commit them to the archives." The Earl's eyes filled with a not-quite-complete semblance of recognition, and he scowled deeply as he was reminded of the scribe. Yes, he had forgotten, but he didn't like it any more. "Very well, very well. If you will do nothing but yammer on about the Duke and the servant than I will bid him enter, lest I die of age before the news reaches my ears." With this, the Earl lifted a small silver bell from his side, which he swung roughly in a back and forth motion, eliciting a clear chime. "A scribe, a scribe! The Earl demands a scribe! Ink! Parchment! Quill! They are needed, when gathered bid he enter! Lest the younger never reach his news and evermore befuddle me with codswallop! Quick, Quick!" The Earl shouted, his voice twisting, snapping, and scathing his throat as he went. Another fit of racking coughs ensued. Before even a full minute had passed, a servant holding a sheaf of parchment, a quill, and ink burst into the hall from the shadowed alcove of a side door.

She, a tall, tan-skinned woman with searching eyes and a light, cautious gait, stood off to the side and only made her presence know by the sound of her breath. "And now brother? Is your young mind satisfied by the presence of one to record your speech? It better be, for I will humour you no more! The news! Speak of the news!" The Earl said. The younger drew in breath, and began his news. "Duke Abaline grows worried. The Lord Mordred of Candlelight Island has been sending scouting ships his way, spying upon the Duke and our northern borders. If he were to strike at us there, the flow of grapes and apples would cease, no more wine or cider could be made. Our empire would lose a third of its buyers, a blow, I assure you, we can not take. The Duke requests we send ships, soldiers, and swords. He has promised to send us, in return, the pride of his fleet, a galley called The Lover's Kiss, along with the redirection of a large trading ship to our fair island. I implore you to accept his conditions, it is in our best interest." The younger delivered his news, the scrib scribbled it down, and the Earl only half-listened. The Earl waved his hand listlessly, "Yes, accept. Humor our allies. I do love the trade ships, grapes and wine, apple and cider. Yes, keep the routes flowing. Do it, and begone! Both of you! I am tired of company, leave me to solitude! Begone!" The scribe hurried off, slamming the door behind her, happy to escape the strange and withered Earl. Wylmot the younger, Morris Wyvern Wylmot, left as well. As he turned his back to the Earl, he smiled. The first step of the conspiracy was taken, and the few loyal men the Earl had would be sent off to the Duke to fight an imaginary war. What happened to them, he cared not. What was important was that, after seven years of miserable service, Morris was one step closer to claiming his rightful title. Silvester was one step closer to death.