The Raiselig Dossier: The Landed Duke Part 2
For hours they traveled; Duke Rensburg on his horse, Raiselig walking behind him. They wandered through the small forests and along the winding brooks, until at last they reached the foot of a mighty hill.
Here, the Duke turned to Raiselig and smiled. “My ancestor performed a survey, a study of the lines that cross our land, and she found the perfect place, atop the tallest hill. In her diary, she describes it quite perfectly. Atop this mock mountain will the ritual be performed.”
Raiselig said nothing, lest they break their impartiality.
The two of them journeyed up the tall hill, along its steep slopes on thin trails long since forgotten and abandoned. The poor horse, ancient and sagging, at last could no longer bear its burden, and collapsed under the Duke.
“Fool beast,” the Duke spat, standing from where he had been thrown. “Lie here to die, then, if you will not follow my commands.” He pulled the saddlebags from the frail steed and walked on past, leaving Raiselig to climb over the beast’s heaving sides.
They walked on, higher and higher as the skies grew darker and the evening crept over the land. The clouds drew closer, huddling together for warmth in the icy air. The winds grew stronger, and still the two climbed higher.
But even in being impartial, Raiselig could not assuage their curiosity. At last, they broke the silence: “Have you ever wondered why your ancestor, after crafting such a perfect spell, decided not to use it?”
The Duke did not bother to turn around as he spoke. “Perhaps she died before she could cast it, or could not find the proper tools. Perhaps she decided the curse was worth it, or only wanted a way out if it became too difficult for her. I know only her inaction is my fortune.”
It was as good an answer as Raiselig expected, and they said no more as they climbed.
At long last, they crested the final rock and found themselves atop the tallest hill in the Duchy. Here, there was a stone. There, a gnarled tree. Raiselig had to admit, the Duke’s ancestor had chosen the location well.
The Duke, for his part, walked to the center of the clearing, standing tall with arms spread wide. His eyes closed as he breathed in the evening air, feeling the caress of the land. “Soon,” he whispered, “I will truly be your Lord.”
The sun dipped lower in the sky, dusk gripped the hilltop. With a sound as soft as falling leaves, Raiselig set the cabinet on the ground, and sat nearby. The lap-desk. The vellum. The pencil. Raiselig was ready.
When the sun finally vanished from the sky, the Duke began the spell. Pulling a jar from the saddlebag, he opened the top and began to sprinkle a white powder as he walked in a circle; tentatively at first, then the flow became steady as the circle was formed beneath his feet and words.
“Golden Sand from fare off lande, Bound to aul an tye thy hand.”
Tossing the jar aside, the Duke produced a thin bronze brazier and three lumps of dusty coal. Setting the brazier on the ground, he placed the coal in their proper places, and brought forth a slim corked bottle.
“Tho’ boiled bark an sour lark, thy blud burn bryte against the dark.”
Pulling the cork from the bottle, the duke took a pull from the bottle and spat on the coals, coating them in whatever substance sloshed within the glass. Even from a distance, Raiselig could smell the alcohol. The Duke slipped the bottle into his belt, pulling out from the bag a fist-sized stone and a thin bar of metal.
“Of flint a fist, of yron a parte, I birth the heet of land’s bone hart.”
Bringing the stone over his head, the Duke struck hard against the metal, sending a shower of sparks across the brazier. The coal kindled into flame, a tiny spot of light among the shadows. From the bag came a single candle. With consummate care, the man pressed the candle deep into the earth in the middle of the circle.
“Nay hart shall beat nor tongue may bleat, a waxen naile now pierce thy peat.”
The Duke produced a small stick and rested it for a second against the flames in the bronze brazier. The winds blew bright and firm, but the tiny ember did not blow out. A good sign, Raiselig was forced to admit. The Duke brought the light to the candle. “Lyte te wike an burn thy waxe, and wynde thy winds to flicker straite. In darkest nyght I now to wate, until thy pase wend to myne gate.”
The Duke knelt before the candle. Raiselig’s eyes burned in the darkness.
Slowly, the Duke brought forth a knife. Barely large enough to cut cheese, Raiselig noted, but of the many parts of the ritual, the knife’s size was not compulsory. How fast was the Duke’s heart beating? They couldn’t help but wonder. In the man’s eyes, they had seen the burning passion that drove men and women to madness, but madness too was no disqualification. The hand that drew the knife across his arms was steady, the breathing sharp and clean.
A moment passed as blood dripped on the dark grass.
“Kayhoorin of the Ley, I summon thee!”
Raiselig looked down at their vellum, and with several swift taps of their pencil, ticked down the list of notes they had made. Yes, perfectly suitable. All precedent had been maintained, and the spell followed well. The man had indeed practiced.
One flourishing signature later, Raiselig had placed a new sheet of paper over the first, and looked up to see the Duke staring, wide eyed, at the being in front of him.
For a moment, neither spoke, each staring at the other with curiosity, caution, and hope. Raiselig watched intently, for the final certification of the ritual — indeed, either party’s survival — could hinge on the slightest movement or misplaced word.
The Duke spoke first, haltingly through cracked lips. “I am Duke Rensburg, of the Duchy of Rensburg.”
Yes. Her voice was like wind and grass and dark caverns and sunlit skies. All around her, the world flowed, and through her was a river of silver.
“You are the Kayhoorin of the Ley? The guardian of the ley line that passes through the valley?”
I am no guardian. I am no warrior. I am the flowing of the river and the passing of the season. I am the life of the beetle and the wind under the hawk. I am the carving of the bed and the settling of the osbowl. I am the ley.
“Yes,” the Duke licked his lips. “Yes, you are who I wanted to speak to.” He cleared his throat and brought forth the scroll from his side. “I enjoin you, as you are mine, to bind yourself to me. Sign this contract, and complete that which was begun generations before.”
The Kayhoorin’s laughter was the twittering of birds in the trees. I am not yours.
“You are,” the Duke spoke forcefully, as to a child who did not wish to eat their grains. “You were given to me and mine years ago, by the High-topped King, he whose gaze covered all of Mortgald and Rasgal. He whose grasp had reached to the unseen horizons. He gave you to my ancestors. I own you, as my family once owned a hundred servants.”
Who can own a river, when the water flows to the sea? Who can own the wind or forest, when the leaves die and are blown free? Can the fish or fowl be owned, when the teeth of the fox or bear can pluck their lives from your grasp?
“Yes,” the Duke’s eyes were cold. “No man will til your soil, nor build a house on your land if I say no. If I wish it, hunters will pick your forests clean. I may build or tear down as I please. I am the Duke of Rensburg, and you are my Duchy.”
A dream, the Kayhoorin laughed through a babbling brook. A whisper in the night to those who do not listen. A power you do not have in exchange for a peace you have not earned. Had you not summoned me, had you seen me without my skin, I would have turned you into a rabbit and chased you for seven days. You would have felt my teeth enter your flesh and know then how much your title is worth.
“No more,” the Duke smiled then. “In the olden days, perhaps, but time has moved on. The world had no time for easy magics. The ley line turns beneath us, even now, and I can feel its power at my fingertips. It is pure, raw, and untamed. I can tame it, with contract and ritual. I can give the land power once more. The word Rensburg will be on the lips of Kings and Queens across the land.”
You are no wizard, little Duke, the Kayhoorin was not laughing now. You bind me with a candle, bring to my eyes a contract of paper, and expect to control a power you have never felt? You own nothing. You cannot control the ley, any more than you can control the sun. I have seen how the world has changed, I have felt in the core of the land. Where once fairies danced, now rotting mushrooms grow. Where goblins prowled, beetles and spiders hold sway. Where once a single magician could unlock the magics of centuries past, now a vault of contracts and ritual remain their only hope. You say you can unlock the power of the ley? I say there is no power.
Now the Duke faltered, his eyes dipped lower and his breath grew tight. Raiselig watched closely, waiting for the end.
But the Duke looked up again, and shook his head. “It is not my concern whether you recognize the power of the ley or not. Only that you bind yourself to me in this contract.”
The Kayhoorin frowned as only a Kayhoorin can. You are not frightened of my teeth, nor my swift paws. You drink of my air and breathe deep of my waters. If you bind the ley to you, it will take much more than you give.
“It always has,” the Duke nodded. “I am not afraid.”
Then let it be so. Now the Kayhoorin turned to Raiselig, their eyes meeting in a clash of thunder. Scrivener, do you mark our accord?
“I do,” Raiselig nodded, adjusting their grip on the pencil. “By your bondage shall the contract be written.”
They talked long into the night, their words carefully written and agreed upon. Decisions and discussions filled the night air, as the poor Duke battled with the earth and sky, fighting to bring it to heel.
But there was only so much a mortal could do. So too, fortunately, was there only so much the land could do to him. The web of laws was tightly woven, and in the end, the contract could only resolve in a single way. An ending that Raiselig had seen many times before.
Then we are agreed, the Kayhoorin finished, at long last. As you are bound to the ley, so the ley will be bound to you.
“I shall rule the land as Duke and as ley-lord,” the man breathed a sigh of relief, mixed with exhaustion. “So together shall we exist, our fortunes united.”
The Kayhoorin nodded, a voice of soft leaves in the breeze tickling his ear. I am glad you came to me, Duke Rensburg. I have not been ignorant of your feet on my grass.
“I am glad as well,” the Duke smiled. “You are as beautiful as I have ever seen you.”
Raiselig put the finishing touches on the contract before reaching into the cabinet for a small bronze figurine of a knight on horseback, holding empty hands where a lance should have lay. Along with the figurine came a stick of wax, a silver seal, and a match. “By your agreement, sign your names.”
I have no hands with which to sign.
“Then by your leave, will the Notary be your hands,” Raiselig marked a cross in the spot where the Kayhoorin’s word was bound. “Now you, Duke Rensburg.”
The man stood, and hobbled over to the seated Scrivener. With a trembling hand, he reached out and took the offered pencil from Raiselig’s grip. He leaned over, and where the line was drawn, he signed his name.
Raiselig took back the pencil, and for a moment their hand hovered above the contract.
It was always a dangerous line to walk for a Scrivener. It was an abuse of the Scrivener’s duty to notarize a contract with one who was not of sound mind, or was unaware of the ramifications of their desires. At the same time, no Scrivener would dare threaten their impartiality by giving counsel to one party and not the other.
They would have to tread cautiously, lest their professionalism be brought into question, and the nightmare that would result from such a threat.
“I am impartial, and will always be so,” Raiselig spoke with care. “Once I seal the contract, there will be no going back. You will be forever bound.”
“And it to me,” the Duke nodded. “It is everything I ever wanted.”
“Is it?” Raiselig’s eyes burned. “Even as a Duke, you had a freedom you will no longer have. Bound in chains of ink and ritual, you will be forever a slave to the land.”
“I always was,” the Duke shrugged, a childlike gesture for so grown a man. “A Duke must have a Duchy. I was always slave to its whims. When it turned its back on me, I became nothing. I can whip a rebellious servant, or punish a bandit at my whim, but how can I be Duke to a land that does not obey? Now, I take back what is mine.”
“You will be unable to do what the meanest peasant can do,” Raiselig tried once more. “Trapped forever, you will suffer as you have never suffered before.”
“What do you know of suffering, Scrivener? For my whole life, my father taught me that to be a Duke was to own the land and everything on it. It was my steed, as well as my servant, my charge as well as my resource. Such expectations he put on my head, to restore the land to a verdant green, to return the townsfolk and farmers and builders and parades where our family would be cheered and heralded as the Dukes and Duchesses we finally were. But he did nothing himself, because he knew as I do, as his father did, that there is nothing to be done.”
The Duke looked at Raiselig then, his eyes as clear and bright as the sanest man. “I was never free, Scrivener. I was always trapped. The land bound me ages hence, as did the title, as did my ancestors. I have no child, and the blood curse may die with me. Now, the land will finally be mine, and I will be its. This is not binding, it is freedom! I will finally be what the world has conspired for me to be!”
Raiselig looked at the smile on the Duke’s lips, and nodded. If they pushed further, their independence would surely be questioned, and that would mean inquiries, investigations, and perhaps even the contact would be overturned. They had never had their contract overturned, and they did not intend to start anytime soon; least of all for a feckless noble who thought being bound was freeing.
With a practiced and delicate hand, Raiselig signed their name on the bottom of the contract. Then, they struck the match and fit it into the tiny figurine, giving the metal knight a lance for as long as the wood burned. They placed the wax over the small flame, and dropped seven drops of red next to the signature. Swiftly, they pressed their seal into the wax, blowing on it after to cool it.
Raiselig studied the seal, nodded once, and rolled up the contract. They placed the fresh scroll in one of the bottom cubbyholes of their cabinet, followed by the wax, the seal, the figurine, the pencil and the lap-desk. Once the cabinet was closed and locked again, Raiselig stood, stretching their aching legs. They had been sitting for a long time on the ground, a practice that had become unfamiliar. No matter, as it was a long walk back to Ad Adwazi. Plenty of time to work the legs again.
Pulling on the broad leather straps, Raiselig set the cabinet comfortably against their back, and paused. Attention to detail was one of their many virtues, and a penchant for cleanliness too. Reaching down, they plucked up the saddlebags from where they lay, returning the scattered contents to their proper place.
Once they were finished, they slung the bags over the top of their cabinet, and began to make their way down the hill again, leaving behind nothing but a stone, a tree, and a single candle stuck in the ground.