The Ever Lord: A Secret from the Baroner Ironmark

CW: Physical and emotional control.

What had Navin done?

Nothing. Navin had done nothing.

Broken tool.

Wallin province was beautiful and verdant. Navin had heard this. Everyone had heard this.

Born to serve.

Navin had said nothing any other servant would not have said. No one would know what Navin had likely set in motion. There was nothing wrong in what Navin had said.

Navin had said it!

On the outside, one Navin danced and conversed with the countless nobility from across the Ever Empire, performing duty as the perfect companion. A hosting representative of House Bithrakai. This Navin asked no questions, and spoke no lies. A perfect machine.

The second Navin struggled to focus on the evening: who spoke with whom, what went unsaid and when, the countless points of data to be collated and combined into the perfect piece of advice for his Gracious Lordship, the Viceroy of House Bithrakai.

Not father. His Gracious Lordship. Navin wasn’t allowed to have a father. Navin was an epicene. Epicenes obeyed commands, served their liege, and had no emotional judgements of their own. Navin wasn’t supposed to like Lord Brachus. Navin wasn’t supposed to avoid Lady Vach.

And now, instead of focusing on the ball and House Bithrakai’s guests, Navin’s mind was wracked with fear and shame.

There was only supposed to be one Navin.

At last the final boor drifted away on the fumes of some excuse, leaving Navin with no obvious guest in need of service. A mixed blessing, for without the distraction for the first Navin, there was nothing left but the broken second Navin, writhing in agony from their recent impropriety.

Focus on your body, your mind will follow. Find a distraction.

What was nearby? The closest space separate from the dancing and mingling throngs was the alcove of gifts, a space at the far end of the ballroom designated to hold the countless ceremonial gifts and offerings of thanks from the gathered guests. An extravagant display of contrasts, the arrangement of gifts was at once a boast, a show of gratitude, a display of decadence, and a gracious compliment to all who sought favor from House Bithrakai. Most of the gifts from attending Houses were symbolic: a small bundle of dried wheat arranged like a bouquet of flowers could represent a gift of several weights to House Bithrakai’s stores. A stone that housed a small carpet of shimmering crystals may represent the deed to some semi-valuable mine, the details of which would no doubt be discussed at length in some dark room. Other gifts were far more practical yet ultimately less useful: House Bithrakai had no need for more dresses, jewelry, hair-combs, mirrors, or other such ornamentation.

All the gifts were arranged and displayed in an eye-catching tableau of extravagance by House Bithrakai’s Mistress of Ceremonies. Like the centerpiece of a table, it was at once a charming piece of decoration while also being a major focus of social importance. A sub-par or carelessly constructed display would be an insult, while even the most ostentatious and cleverly arranged tableau would merit little more than an appreciative comment.

Each gift held its own meaning. An ornate mirror with several large crystals carefully embedded in the curving metal. A long ream of shimmering dark fabric, ready to be made into a shining cape, a captivating shawl, or a seductive dress.

Navin took a slow breath. There. Your heart is slowing. Your blood is calming. Focus on the gifts.

In the center of the display was a sculpted bowl that could have been useful for the kitchens, if a plate of glass had not been lain inside and polished to a mirror finish to complete the illusion of a shimmering basin of water, with gold and silver fish frozen underneath the surface. A marvelous piece of art from one of House Bithrakai’s filial Houses, given prominence as a reward for some service.

On the back walls of the alcove, three tapestries provided ornate background to the display. The first was a carefully ornamented story of House Bithrakai’s geneology, using the well honed language of embroidery. The next was a more traditional display, honoring the…

Navin stepped closer.

Embroidery was a detailed language of symbols and colors, but this tapestry was odd. The style was similar to the first and third, but the needlework betrayed the weavers lack of experience with it. The weave was impressively tight and of thinner thread than the traditional Imperial tapestry style. At the center of the tapestry was the cluster of symbols that represented Viceroy Bithrakai; a crown, a curving flower, a red shield. In proper positions around the Viceroy were images of bountiful fields and glittering lakes. It was a celebration of the house’s prosperity under the Viceroy’s rule.

“Excellent needle-work, yes?”

Navin’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of a tall dark-haired man. His dress uniform was a deep blue, covered in red sashes and ribbons. It’s trim was simple and clean, in the elegant style of the First World. A ceremonial sword hung at his fired-leaether belt, and his smooth demicloak was clasped with the silver crest of House Ironmark.

He had grown taller.

No, he just looked taller. He was sharper, a few more lines on his face. He had been such a young man and now he was…Not older. Colder. Darker. More like a statue than a man.

In spite of the torrent of thoughts and broken emotions, the first Navin bowed graciously. “Your Lordship, it is an honor to speak with you once again.”

“I’m sure it is, and after so many years.” the young Baroner of the most powerful Great Houses in the Ever Empire stepped next to Navin. His full name and title was His Lordship Born of Fired Steel, seventeenth Heir to the House Ironmark, Baroner of Second Hill, Knight-Dominant of the Hound, and Acolyte of the Divine Nail. Impressive honors for a lowly Baron, but there was nothing lowly about House Ironmark.

His smile was kind. His eyes were cold. He moved with the easy lethal grace of a cat and his voice was soft as distant thunder. He reached out and pulled two glasses of wine from a passing servant. “I have been watching you since you entered the room. Should I be offended you have yet to come and say hello to me?” He held out a glass. “Please, drink with me.”

“No offense was intended, your Lordship,” Navin accepted the glass and let it hang from loose fingers. “I was not made aware of your arrival.”

“No?” He shrugged. “My mother the Archduchess saw fit to send our usual proxy-noble, Countier Ligot Hartkind, as a courteous formality. I presume you have seen him boring your guests out of their skulls?”

“I did, your Lordship,” Navin cast a glance over the ballroom, looking somewhere other than those deep brown eyes.

“Yes. I am here on my own volition. As I suspected, they did not turn me away at the door.”

“Of course, your Lordship,” Navin bowed again. “No one would dream of insulting you thus. Please forgive my negligence. I would be happy to serve you however you need.”

“Would you?” The young Baroner cocked his head ever so slightly. “And in front of all these people? We’ll have time enough later, I’m sure.”

“Again, I must beg your pardon, but the Viceroy has commanded I remain in the ballroom to tend to our guests. If you wish to procure my services in private, you will not find his Gracious Lordship amenable.”

Baroner Ironmark’s eyes flickered. “I was not planning on making it formal. Drink.” It was no longer a request.

Navin raised the wine and took the smallest of sips. The bouquet was thick and heady, a mixture of rich butter and sour fruit. It tingled the end of Navin’s tongue with sparks of fire.

“I have been quite vocal with your father these past few months, trying to get him to see reason. He still thinks me too young.”

“Perhaps he is wise in his choice,” Navin forced a smile.

“Perhaps he is a fool,” Lord Ironmark sneered in return before looking back up at the tapestry and taking a long drink of his own. “I commissioned this work not two weeks ago. A marvelous piece of work for so little time, I think.”

“You honor us greatly with it,” Navin swallowed. Two weeks? And with one week to travel the Velvet, a remarkable feat was suddenly a panicked one. “I had not realized you were looking to procure a wife, your Lordship.”

It was a clumsy gambit: House Ironmark had no political or material reason to seek a marital union with House Bithrakai. Few of the Great Houses did, and fewer still had bothered to send a familial noble. If the Baroner was here for his own reasons, what possible reasons could they be? The first and most obvious answer set Navin’s gut quivering with flitterwings.

Any other possibility was crowded out by a single fact, as clear and sharp as a sword. Navin feared the Baroner.

He smelled of apricots and sweet honey.

After a long pause, the Baroner took another sip of wine. “You can’t imagine what it’s like. House Ironmark is one of the most powerful of the Twenty Great Houses. We are so tightly tied to the Ever Church that our every wish could be a religious command. We own vast territories on the First World and significant ones on the Second. We possess a fleet of Velvet-ships to rival that of House Tharghem. Our Ever Lord has granted us the right to wield his blessed weapons, and even an entire division of the Imperial Honor. There is not a single soul in this room who would dare challenge my presence here for fear of angering my family…and yet I am seventeenth in line and no more than a lowly Baron. My siblings all have prior claim to becoming Archduke of House Ironmark. I may be of the family, but no one cares.”

Navin didn’t respond. It was dangerous for a servant to speak when it wasn’t precicely clear what needed to be said, doubly so for an epicene.

“In truth,” Baroner Ironmark finally turned to look at Navin again, “I had thought to give the tapestry to the Viceroy alone, but you’ll have to do.”

“An epicene does not own property,” Navin said.

“No,” Baroner Ironmark snorted. “No, the only thing you are allowed to possess is information, yes? I wonder if you’ve had the opportunity in your many lessons to learn about the Aeolam thread-language? It is a form of writing.”

“Just as you say, your Lordship.” Navin had been trained in the practice, but no epicene would ever dare interrupt a Lord’s explanation.

The Baroner gestured up at the tapestry with two relaxed fingers. “You see the delicate needlework, how intricate it is? So subtle you can even leave messages for those who understand it. Here, for example,” the Baroner pointed at the yellow field beneath the mountains, “you see these stitches here? This needlework here and here represent the number seven. The Aeolam of the First World used this method ages ago as a way of writing their histories, before the Empire brought them true language. Tailors and needle-workers even used it for a time to communicate treacheries and heresies in secret, before they were fully civilized.”

Navin waited patiently while the Baroner continued to explain. “These,” he pointed at the mountains above the field, “are not a symbol. At least, not as you may think. You may note that there are no mountains of this shape in House Bithrakai’s lands.” Lord Ironmark moved closer, until Navin could smell his breath. “I’m afraid the seamstresses of my Barony are unfamiliar with the topography of your lands. They knew only the mountain ranges outside their own windows.”

…And there, under the mountains was the Holy symbol of Godsblood.

It wasn’t possible. The plant that provided fortenine could not be cultivated, only harvested naturally. All the fertile fields had been claimed and controlled by the Imperial Honor. If the message woven into the tapestry was correct…

Navin’s breath was shallow as the message continued to unfold across the embroidery. “I…I believe I understand, your Lordship.”

“Immaterial,” the Baroner sniffed. “You don’t need to understand, only obey. When the Viceroy commands your council on who to wed you to, you will tell him I am the best choice for your husband. If he disagrees, direct his attention to my gift. I’m sure he will understand, and if he does not, you will explain the presence and method of my missive, He will do the rest.”

Navin’s knees were burning, turning to jelly under the weight of the hidden message. “The…mountains, your Lordship…must be close to your domain, to be visible from out your window…”

“Very close indeed,” the Baroner whispered. “I had a very good Aeolam ranger who could cross mountain-ranges that no beast can travel. He could find valleys that have been hidden for centuries. He could even find hidden passes that could fit a caravan of wagons carrying weights of the most valuable commodities. A pity he is no longer with us, but he told me all of his secret discoveries before he passed.”

“I…” Navin’s throat was quickly cleared as the weight of propriety overtook the moment. “Forgive my lack of manners. Your Lordship honors me too greatly with your attention. I do not wish to deprive the rest of our guests of your presence.”

Lord Ironmark’s hand gripped Navin’s elbow as tight as a manacle.

“And if I refused to leave?”

“Your Lordship is free to do as you please. You are our guest —”

“Then let me stay here and speak with you that I might hear you call me Lordship again and again. You’re a perfect servant, aren’t you? You know what a union between me and House Bithrakai could do.”

“Your Lordship, I am bound to the will of Viceroy Bithrakai.”

Navin’s heart pounded louder than gunfire as the Baroner gently brushed Navin’s cheek with a rough hand. “We have our own bond too, do we not? Or have you forgotten those secret nights already?”

Navin’s lips parted. “I have not forgotten, your Lordship.”

“Good. Tell no one what I have, and we shall build the foundation of a new future, fair maid.”

“I am no maid, your Lordship. I am epicene.”

“No epicene has ever enraptured me as you have.”

“You flatter, my Lord.”

“Please, I would have you address me informally. Say my name.”

“You are his Lordship, Baroner Ironmark.”

“That is my title. My name.”

“It is not proper, your Lordship.”

“Does the thought disgust you?” Navin could almost see the saliva building on his tongue at the thought. “Or delight you? If I ordered you to love me, would you have any choice but to be mine? Is it proper for an epicene to refuse an order? I order you to say my name.”

“Your Lordship Born of Fired Steel,” Navin recited. “You are being dangerously forward.”

He smiled, inhaling deeply. His voice was harsh as iron. “Do you want me to release you? Why should I, when keeping you here gives me the pleasure of your company? One day, Navin, I will see you curtsy to me. You will be what I need of you and I need a wife. Would you deny your husband his will?”

“You are not my husband, your Lordship.”

“Not yet,” Lord Ironmark stared into Navin’s eyes, his mouth twisting around his teeth.

Navin was frozen. It was impossible to just walk away, he hadn’t given permission. I shouldn’t want to walk away. One Navin was panicking, struggling to divise some solution, some avenue of escape. Somewhere, hidden in the reams of data in Navin’s mind had to be some phrase, some magic words that would cause Lord Ironmark to release Navin’s arm. The other Navin was frozen, staring deep into the Lord’s rich brown eyes, seeing the fires of passion burn away his humanity. It is not my place to cause anyone to do anything, except be pleased.

“Your Lordship, your hand is hurting me.”

To Navin’s relief, propriety lay deeper in the heart than humanity; after only a moment, Lord Ironmark released Navin’s elbow with a bow.

“So be it. I await the chance to show you what I can provide you and your House, Navin of House Bithrakai.”

Navin’s bow was automatic, before spinning around and walking as slowly as Navin’s gasping heart would allow. Navin could feel Lord Ironmark’s eyes scraping up and down every curve of Navin’s body, tracing the lines his hands would squeeze and fondle.

Navin could scarcely breathe. Through the pounding

A hidden field of Godsblood? If that were true, Baroner Ironmark was about to become a very rich Lord, well worth the attention of even the Great Houses.

A secret request for a thousand laborers, fifty alchemists, and over two hundred wagons… Navin could scarcely believe the calculations, doing them three more times to be certain. If the Baroner were not mad, the hidden number seven was not a reference to the number of weights that could be harvested from the secret field of Godsblood, but the number of fields that he had found.

Seven fields. The blood drained away from Navin’s face as numbers flew back and forth; the harvest rate of a single flower, the number of flowers in a field, the cost and logistics of a full-scale harvesting operation, all told totaled a conservative number of over two hundred —

Over two hundred weights of the blessed fortenine! With that much fortenine, an entire fleet of Velvet-ships could be built, enough to cover the Five Worlds. This wasn’t a windfall that would catapult Baroner Ironmark to fortune, this was a find that would upend the balance of power across the entire Empire!

Did the Baroner realize Navin could understand his message? No matter; If Navin were a man, he would have gripped the Baroner tightly about the shoulders and dragged him into a sitting room where they could plot and plan, drinking House Bithrakai’s finest wines to celebrate their union. If Navin were a woman, she would have professed her undying love to such a handsome and clever noble, and begged for the honor of spending every night in his bedchamber. If the Baroner had disagreed, both male and female Navin would have made a thousand schemes — ten thousand — all to ensure the fields of Godsblood would belong to Navin and Navin alone.

But Navin was an epicene. There was no danger in telling secrets to an epicene so long as you knew who the epicene served, and Navin served House Bithrakai.

The second Navin was in torment. Lord Ironmarks message made it impossible to focus on the evening any longer. Eyes wide, Navin couldn’t see. The rest of the ball slowly faded, to be replaced by the sounds of clicking glass and silver. Colors faded and merged like watery paint. All the room was a blur.

Focus. Heart rate. Rapid breathing. Churning blood. These are the tools the body uses to distract the mind. Acknowledge them, and then ignore them. They will do nothing more than hinder you. You are not your body. Be separate, and you shall flourish.

Gradually, Navin’s eyes saw once more. Shapes became nobles and servants. Tables. Chairs. Dresses. Background became walls and ornamentation.

Refuge. Find safety, control the body, return to yourself.

Navin’s pace was slow. Controlled. Navin felt like butter sliding across bread, getting smaller and smaller as pieces were left behind.

This, Navin thought, must be what it is like to die.