The Ever Lord: House Ashtree and the Guildmin

Mura’s father returned to the farm, not with a message, but with a man.

She had waited by the gate to the Ashtree farm every evening for a week, watching the road in hopes that her father would return soon with good news of their liege’s generosity. Her mother had admonished her for a fool, but Mura finished her work every day, so her mother could not call her undutiful. Sometimes her Uncle Oklan came to watch with her and talk, even though there wasn’t much to talk about. That is, except the one thing they didn’t want to talk about.

When she first saw the dust on the distant road, blown about by the Fourth World’s constant wind, she wasn’t sure she was seeing true. She stared for a few minutes until she was sure that there was indeed the dark shape of a horse and rider heading towards the farm. She ran to the farmhouse, calling her family to come and see. By the time she returned to the gate with her family in tow, there was no doubt; her father was coming home.

Mura watched him riding up the road, waving his hands above his head in greeting. Her uncles and aunts stood by her side, speaking to each other in the same worried tone of voice they had used when discussing the harvest.

“No green, nor sable,” her uncle Oklan said, just barely above the loud winds. “No livery. No proxy o’ the Baroner.”

“Think he’s one o’ the Baroner’s menials?” Mura’s mother asked. “Mayhap he’s come to see what’s become o’ our harvest?”

“If our Baroner needs to know,” Oklan snorted, “can look out his own rotting window. Storms been cruel this season, we’re not worst hit.”

“I don’t see food,” another of Mura’s uncles spoke. “No caravan. No grain nor root.”

“Mayhap a bandit?” Mura asked.

“Your father may not been wisest o’ men,” Oklan gave a chuckle, resting his thick hand on Mura’s shoulder, “but he’ll not bring a bandit home like a stray dog, and I never seen a bandit gracious enough to give one a ride home after taking his purse.”

“Aye,” the other uncle muttered again, “I’ll not disagree: Baroner never gave us a horse after picking our pockets.”

“Here now,” Mura’s mother’s tone was cautionary. “Enough of that. Not our place to scorn the virtue of another.”

“Oh, aye,” the uncle smirked. “I’ll not mock virtue in neither Baron nor bandit, however similar they seem.”

Mura’s mother clicked her teeth at him before turning back to the approaching riders. “He’ll not need all of us to take the horses and welcome him home. Get along, back to the longhouse. He’ll tell what came of his travels soon enough.”

The gathered family dispersed at the command, leaving only Mura and Oklan to watch her father’s approach.

“Nervous?” Oklan asked.

She wasn’t. Mura was not yet a woman of House Ashtree, and so knew little of the politics that tied the Baroner and his filial Houses together. She knew the Ever Lord and his virtues. She knew the prayers and rituals that ensured a healthy harvest and kept the storms away.

They hadn’t worked this year. The storms that tore across the Barony were harsher than they had ever been, and they had lost much. It was a sign, Mura knew, that things were wrong. Somewhere in the Empire, their Ever Lord was displeased.

And now a stranger returned from the Baroner’s Castle with her father. He was taller than her father, and broader too. There was gray in his hair, but there was no denying the strength in the man’s arms. He was a farmer, she guessed, or perhaps a blacksmith.

When her father was at last in calling range, he cupped his hands over his mouth and bellowed, “How long been you waiting there? I hope you still tended the fields while I was gone?”

“We worked no less than when you were here,” Oklan bellowed back. “Lazy fool.” When the horse reached the gate, he spoke once more. “News from the Baroner?”

“Aye,” Mura’s father dismounted from his horse, handing the reigns off to her. “Aye, I do, and strange news indeed. Stable the horses, Mura.”

“I want to hear,” Mura said, placing her hands on her hips. “I’m a woman soon enough, and I won’t be shoved off to do children’s work.”

“Ha!” Oklan laughed. “Give here, Mura. I can guess I’ll have no head for what’s coming. Mayhap your head be more help than mine.”

The stranger said nothing as he walked alongside Mura’s father. Nor did any of the rest of the family as they approached and fell into step alongside. They came from the fields, the workhouse, the fences, and the many small buildings that surrounded the longhouse, summoned to hear the story of Mura’s father. Mura could feel their curiosity. Their silence wasn’t out of politeness, Mura knew, but a sense of propriety. The man would be introduced to them soon enough, and it was her father’s right to do so.

Coming Home was a process in the Ashtree Farm. The farms of the Barony of Noonan were wide apart, claiming the little fertile land that was available. When someone set out on a journey, it was for weeks at a time. Their returning was an event of importance, and so it had its own rituals of welcoming.

Mura’s father took off his riding coat, his boots, his thick leather leg-covers, and his rough gloves. Each article of clothing was handed to a nearby family member, who in turn passed the clothing towards the wooden chest of storm gear in the corner of the room. Mura’s father had to take no more than three steps before a thick mug of ale was pressed into his hands to wet his dry throat. The stranger was given one as well, though did not drink at first. Instead he waited to be offered a seat while Mura’s father strode to the broad fireplace — the family’s informal stage for anyone who wanted to wanted to speak to the entire Longhouse.

Sitting down in the sturdy wooden chair, Mura’s father took long pull from his mug while the constant winds of the Fourth World wailed outside, battering against the mighty stone longhouse. After taking a satisfied breath, he began his story.

“The road was simple enough,” he shrugged. “Three days of nothing but wind. Didn’t meet a single soul.”

“You see the Baroner, then?” One of Mura’s cousins asked, speaking perhaps a bit sooner than was proper.

“Nay,” he shook his head. “Spoke with his chamberlain. Hard cold man, he was. Told him of the storms, our harvest, how we barely had enough for winter now, and how I suspect the other farms fare the same. ‘Aye,’ he says, ‘you are not the first to come begging for charity.’”

Mura heard her mother suck in her breath in a dark hiss. “Charity?” she asked. “He said food on our table is a gift?” The sudden chill in the room told Mura that the rest of her family shared the astonishment.

“Rot their blood,” an aunt muttered. “Rot all their blood to dust.”

“Your tongue is kinder than my thoughts were,” Mura’s father stroked his chin. “Were I not of steady mind, I might have loosed my tongue and be hanged for a villain then and there. ‘No charity,’ I said, ‘but Duty. We be filial to House Noonan, and we provide our tithe in grain and root.’”

Mura’s father paused, shifting in his seat. He took another long pull of his mug and heaved a sigh. “He said it was no tithe, but tribute, fit for a Baroner from his subjects.”

The muttering grew in intensity. “That is not the way of things!” an uncle shouted over the family’s fuming. “We did not swear fealty to Noonan to be cast aside when winter looms cold and hungry!”

“Aye,” Mura’s father nodded, speaking over his family’s murmers. “I said the same, or near enough. ‘You swore fealty all the same,’ he said, ‘and so you will abide by the Baroner’s will. He must see to the stores of every House under his wing, and his pantry is not infinite. He’ll give you what he will when he wills it, and no more.’”

“Then he will give us food?” Mura asked, hoping that the Baroner had not forsaken his virtues.

“The Chamberlain would not say,” her father took another drink. “He said naught but to remind me of the virtues of Humility and Duty.”

“What sort of answer is that?” Mura’s mother snapped. “Are we supposed to sit with empty stores and pray them full?”

“What do you suggest?” One of Mura’s aunts snapped back. “It’s not our place to tell the Baroner what to do. If he’s virtuous, he’ll do his duty and keep us fed.”

“And if he’s not?” an uncle demanded. “What then? Do we lie down and accept the rule of a sinful Lord?”

“How dare you!” the aunt was aghast. “Our Ever Lord would never suffer Baroner or Baroness if they were not virtuous. It is by a Baron’s virtue they have the right to rule.”

“What right has any man to kill another without resistance? If the Baroner decides our stomachs should stay empty, are we to starve at his command?”

“A cruel command to be sure,” the stranger said.

The room fell silent, indignation giving way to remembered curiosity. Even the winds outside ebbed, as if holding their breath in anticipation. The man set aside his empty mug and leaned forward in his seat. Clasping his thick hands together, he rumbled in a deep bass voice: “Forgive me, I did no mean to insert myself in Family matters.”

“Seems to me you did that when you came down our road with my husband,” Mura’s mother crossed her arms. “You’re here for reason, I’ll warrant, and if it’s to apologize for the Baroner, you’ll have a rough time of it. Tell us stranger, what is your name and reason for coming here?”

The stranger held out his hands. “Forgive me, I’ll not tell you my name. You may call me Brother, for I wish to be kin to you all.”

“That’s no name,” a voice from the gathered family spoke out. Mura could not hear whose it was. “I know, it is a title from the Guild.”

The Guild! Mura’s eyes snapped to the man where he sat, suddenly imposing in his stillness. After a moment, the man gave a slow nod. “Aye, I’m of the Guild, and I’m not ashamed to say so.”

“No?” Mura recognized the wary tone in her mother’s voice. “We heard many things worth shame about the Guild.”

“Aye,” Brother gave a soft chuckle. “I’ll wager you have. Thieves and con-men, no better than bandits. We’ll steal your children and rot the grain in your fields with ancient sinful magics, given to us by the Deceiver himself. Horns and claws and a third eye right here,” he drove a thick finger into his forehead. “I’ll not lie, if I had such magics, it’d make my job much easier.”

“Aye? And why will you not give us your name, then, if not for shame?” Mura’s mother turned to her husband. “What possessed you, fool, to bring this man onto our land?”

“What is your job?” an uncle asked. “Why did you come here on the back of one of our horses?”

“Because we’re more alike than not,” Brother said, sticking his jaw out. “I’ll not give you my name, for my safety as well as your’s. I’ll say I have a family and a farm, and if I weren’t here I’d be protecting our poor harvest, same as you. The storms that tore your fields tore through ours as well.” The Brother paused for a moment before his tone softened. “How do you fare?”

Mura winced at the memory. It had been horrific hearing the winds scream overhead as she hauled as hard as she could on the ropes, holding the harvest down with the help of her family. One of their barns had collapsed, two animals died, one of her uncles had broken his leg. It was not the worst they had suffered. It was not her first storm, either. Last harvest season she had helped soothe the animals in their barn and helped push a log into place when an old and rotting support beam had snapped in two.

“We’ll not starve,” an aunt said. “Our stores are fair stocked. If we get nothing from the Baroner, we’ll certainly go hungry for many nights. If anything spoils or rots we’ll go hungrier still, but the winter will not end our family.”

“That’s fortunate for you,” Brother nodded. “Very fortunate. I’ve heard worse from some of the other Houses. Arrowhawk especially, have you heard? Lost everything to a broken storehouse an a pack of wild dogs.”

“We’ve not had time to send word to any of the other houses,” Mura’s mother admitted, glancing around at the family. “We’ve been busy tryin’ to protect what we salvaged.”

“You’re not alone,” the Brother nodded. “If you have the time later, I can tell you all I’ve heard of the nearby Houses. I’ll not tell you how to think, but I think we’re on the same side. I aim to get food in your bellies and coin in your purses; to bring virtue back to the lands of my working brothers and sisters.”

“Virtue?”

The strange man looked at Mura. “Aye, sister, virtue. The five virtues of the Ever Lord. We can all quote them quick, I know. Now I never planned to be a preacher, but I know there’s nothing I can teach you about Wisdom, and I can see you all need no lessons in Bravery. Purity is your own, and I’ll say nothing on that. But Duty? Humility?”

The man pointed at Mura’s father. “You heard from his own lips; the Baroner wants us to stay humble. Know our place. Now I travel all over this land and I see plenty of folk working to make a world for their children, a world for their neighbors, and a world for families of blood and of bond. That’s the spoils of Humility if ever I see it.”

The man’s jaw twisted. “And then I see the stores in the castle. I see soldiers drinking and eating their fill without a care in the world. I see the Baroner ignore his subjects when they’re afraid of famine, and call your hard work and honest labor a tribute. That’s no kind of Duty I’ve ever seen.”

“You don’t need to tell us that,” Mura’s mother huffed. “You know why some of us say as we need the Baroner, too, aye?”

“Aye, that I do,” the man smiled. “We all have our place in the Empire. Without the Baron, how can you get your food to where it needs to go? I know none of you have a ship, nor a place in the great marketplaces. How can you sell your food without his largess? How can you ship it or trade it, without his title? You tend to the fields like a Baron tends to a Barony, and as you serve a Baron so a Baron serves a Count. So the virtue of the peasant flows up to our Ever Lord. How could the Ever Empire survive without such a strong foundation and walls? You are not the first to ask such questions. Well, now I’ll give you an answer.”

The Brother spread his arms wide. “With us. That’s what the Guild can do for you. We’ll honor your work. If you’ll let us, we’ll trade your food and coin for a fair price. I bet you don’t know how much you can make for what you grow?”

“Three tin a weight,” Mura’s father muttered. “More if the crop is good.”

“Three?” The man gaped. “By his holy blood, I can get you seven and a ha-tin, and for a scant weight at that.”

The dark muttering of House Ashtree grew astonished.

“You see why I asked him to come back with me?” Mura’s father downed the last of his drink, an odd smile on his lips.