Ravensholm's great hall rang out with laughter and boasts as the warriors regaled one another with stories of the most recent raid into the Eastmark settlements. Smoke from the hearth curled upwards towards the high beams, rich with the smell of roasting meat and spilled mead.
Five-year-old Edric sat on the long table beside his brother Thorvald and watched the celebrations with detached calculation. His father sat in the high seat among his jarls and thegns, his thundering voice riding above the noise as he spoke of the division of spoils.
The trading ships were hardly defended," Jarl Sigurd announced. "His warriors weakened by too many years of prosperity. The king of the Eastmark becomes lax in his stone ramparts."
Leif himself had lean forward eagerly. "Did you encounter any sword-bearers, Father?"
"One," Sigurd dismissed with a wave of his hand. "A young noble with an underpowered fire blade—barely powerful enough to ignite a candle flame. I took away his sword before he could make a complete fool of himself."
The warriors grinned with appreciation and raised horns in salute.
Edric's eye turned to the far side of the hall, to visiting courtiers who had been seated there. Their ornately polished armor and dignified ways made them distinguishable from his own more rough-around-the-edges men-at-arms. The court party had come three days before under the guise of discussing border defenses, and Edric had detected an undercurrent beneath the courtly civilities.
Most compelling was the young man who sat nearest to the high table—Lord Hakon Bloodaxe, one of the king's distant cousins. Barely twenty years old with sharp angular features and watchful eyes that brought to mind predators Edric had noted in his past life. The other courtiers obeyed his will with a subservience that hinted at influence greater than his stated rank.
"You are staring once more, little raven," Thorvald spoke quietly, employing the name he'd assigned to Edric because of his watchful gaze. Seventeen years old, Thorvald had matured into a reflective young man whose inner gentleness went unnoticed by their father but appreciated by the household guards. "What is there to see in our royal cousin that captivates you so?"
"He is smiling but his eyes are cold," Edric answered quietly, permitting the naivety of childhood to conceal his opinion.
Thorvald's eyebrows flicked upwards slightly. "Perceptive. Lord Hakon is rumored to be the king's favorite, young as he is. They make claims that he wields Soulrender—a spiritual sword of some power."
*A spiritual knife wielder in court, taking an interest in an outlying province in an odd way,* Edric considered. *Reconnaissance mission, perhaps gauging our defenses or allegiance.*
Before he could see any more, Ragnar strode into the hall, red in the face with fury. At fifteen, he had already grown the muscular physique of their father, without any of the strategic restraint.
Father!" he exclaimed, breaking into the merriment. "Leif has struck once more! He's tampered with my equipment for the demonstration tomorrow!"
Talks ceased when Sigurd's face grew somber. "Serious charges, lad. What evidence do you provide?"
"My hold on my sword was released, the binding undone just so it would break during combat." Ragnar accused Leif. "Only he would be able to make it resemble ordinary wear so it would malfunction when it counted."
Leif's face was still a mask of injured innocence. "Why would I sabotage you in front of a demonstration by the queen? Your failing would reflect on our own house."
"You because you are ever jealous." Ragnar snarled back. "You know that Father plans to give me Frostbringer when I reach an age to claim it, and give you something smaller."
The reference to Frostbringer, one of two family heirloom ice-elemental blades, passed through the hallway in a whisper. These were instruments of power and authority among the noble clans.
Edric observed the transaction with interest. Having watched his siblings for five years, he'd charted their vulnerabilities and motivations with carefully calculated accuracy. Ragnar was powerful and rash. Leif was smart and insecure. Both could become deadly enemies or valuable allies if he played this game right.
Enough! Jarl Sigurd pounded his hand on the table. "I will not have my sons quarreling like thralls in front of our visitors. Leif, if I find out you tampered with your brother's practice, you'll hunt this winter with no more than an ordinary steel sword. Ragnar, master your temper or you'll show only childish fury come dawn."
The air in the hall grew tense with the brothers confronting one another with glares. Edric saw Lord Hakon observing the confrontation with barely disguised interest, his fingers stroking the hilt of the ornate sword by his side—a sword with unique runes carved along its crossguard.
Noticing an opportunity to hear more, Edric slipped out of his seat and went to his father's high table, taking on the wide-eyed naivety befitting a boy his age.
"Father," he spoke in a tone that would carry just so far, "can I take Lord Hakon to see the ancient tapestry in the eastern hallway? The one depicting the battle with swords?"
Sigurd flashed an instant's surprise at the interruption and then smiled indulgently. "If our royal cousin desires to indulge you, Edric."
Lord Hakon's countenance changed to one of interest. "I'd be honored to escort the young lord," he stated smoothly, standing up from his chair. "I hear that Ravensholm contains some of our kingdom's most ancient histories in its fabrics."
As they exited the main hall, Edric led them through torch-lined passages with war trophies and ancestral shields hung all about. He strode with studious childlike glee, casting the occasional backward look to see if Hakon were keeping up with him and figuring out how to pry information out of the nobleman.
"You're rather young to be interested in tapestries from the past," Hakon noted on the way.
"I like the swords in the photographs," Edric answered, deliberately to the point. "The radiant ones."
Hakon smiled tightly. "Magical blades are something that interest me too. Your family owns two ice-element blades, right?"
"Frostbringer and Rimeheart," Edric affirmed, and then added with innocent naivety, "But the greatest swords were lost during the ancient wars, says my father."
They arrived in the eastern hallway with an immense tapestry against the far wall on which were portrayed armoured men with radiant weapons fighting against an army of dark adversaries. Edric indicated toward one who stood in the middle with a black sword surround by purple radiance.
"That is King Harald Stormcrown with Soulrender," he stated, monitoring Hakon closely. "The very same sword that you wear."
No sooner had he spoken the words when Hakon's own hand had gone to his own sword without his realizing it, his gaze hardening in response to Edric's comment.
The purple runes," Edric stated with a shrug, and then indicated another figure on the tapestry. "That's my great-grandfather and Stormcaller prior to its being lost."
"Lost indeed," Hakon whispered, his eyes fixed on the tapestry with renewed intensity. "A plethora of great blades disappeared during the Sundering Wars. Some claim to be hidden away, sleeping until worthy wielders be found."
He knelt down beside Edric, speaking in an almost conspiratorial whisper. "Tell me if you ever had dreams about swords, young lord. Children from the old bloodlines sometimes see what others don't."
The question confirmed Edric's worst fears. This wasn't a courtesy call—Hakon had come hunting something in particular in Ravensholm, perhaps one of the lost artifacts of power.
Sometimes, Edric lied, his voice trembling on false hesitations. "I sometimes dream about having a sword under stone and root and lying in darkness."
His eyes grew fractionally wider—wide enough to validate Edric's wager had hit its mark. "Interesting," the nobleman spoke calmly, his tone mask-ing the intensity of his suddenly narrowed eyes. "You may be gifted with the vision that runs through your family."
Before they could continue talking, the footsteps echoing down the hallway announced Thorvald's arrival. Entering the room, he had his face carefully schooled into neutrality.
The ceremony awaits your return, Lord Hakon. The toasts will be served soon.
Thereafter Hakon stood up, arranging his features into polite countenance. "Of course." "Thank you very much for the lesson in history, young Edric. Perhaps we will speak further prior to your leaving."
As Hakon strode by Thorvald, the two brothers exchanged a look. After the nobleman had safely passed out of hearing distance, Thorvald went to Edric with his eyebrows raised.
"Poking around with royal guests already, little raven? What did you want?"
Edric thought about how much to say. In his opinion, Thorvald was the most reliable among his brothers—smart enough to be helpful, ethical enough to be dependable.
"He's seeking something in Ravensholm," Edric spoke in hushed tones. "Something concealed."
Thorvald scowled. "How could you possibly know that?"
The way he observes," Edric stated matter-of-factly. "Not like a visitor. Like one who hunts."
His brother examined him for an instant, sighed. "You notice too much for your own good, Edric. Around Lord Hakon, watch yourself. Spiritual blade users sometimes tune into thoughts and intentions. Those who are near the king don't visit border provinces without reason."
As they made way to the great hall, Edric weighed what he'd so far learned. Lord Hakon Bloodaxe: ambitious and treacherous and on the hunt for an ancient sword of might in Ravensholm dominion. A potential ally or future adversary, depending on the way the game went. Edric had learned in his past that knowledge about chief players was paramount to strategic victory. In this magical world with its ancient bloodlines and enchanted swords, lessons applied there translated directly to lessons applied here: knowledge is power; allies are weapons. And Lord Hakon suspected that one day he would be with him or against him when the real battles erupted.