Not enough of us get to tell those who had a hand in building us just how we feel about our pasts, while they’re still alive. It wounds the heart, but makes us more whole whenever we can, though. This physical world isn’t all there is, but while we have it, this is the one that counts. The words should be spoken.
“I hate to worry him like this,” Ivar confessed, as he and Kordas headed to the stables. “But . . . this is who I am.”
Kordas waited to say anything until they got to the stables and he could watch Ivar with a critical eye. And he liked what he saw. Ivar’s black mastiff stayed right at his master’s heel, with his long tail waving gently from side to side and his head up, ears alert, attention fixed on his master. This was a well-trained dog, with love for his master. Ivar’s horse welcomed him with a whicker and a nuzzle, and Ivar checked bridle, saddle, and girth for his horse’s comfort before mounting.
As for Ivar himself, he looked to be in his element: brown-haired, brown-eyed, with brown skin that showed he spent every moment he could outdoors. He had the mix of environmental awareness, sureness, and calluses that proved he had gotten those muscles through actual work, and not “vanity exercise” like lesser nobles—idle dilettantes—pursued. Hacking at stuffed targets didn’t give Ivar his build—hacking through wilderness did.
I think Delia is going to get on with him, came the unexpected thought, not an unwelcome one. Kordas was very well aware, and had been for quite some time, that his young sister-in-law was infatuated with him, and that was absolutely not something he wanted to encourage. But perhaps her attention could be redirected to Ivar . . .
Not overtly, though. That’s the surest way to get her angry with me. But maybe Isla could do something in that direction.
“So, I’ve already figured out which Charger I’m going to put you with,” Kordas said aloud, as they headed back to the Valdemar manor. “She’s a four-year-old mare, she’s a bit smaller than the average, and she’s already got a bit of a reputation in the stable for being protective. That means you’re going to have to do a fair bit of work to get her to accept your dog.”
“What do you mean by ‘a reputation for being protective’?” Ivar asked.
“Some loose dogs got into the pasture. Apparently, she stomped them flat, I presume because they were trying to chase the other horses.” Kordas cast a glance at Ivar, but he seemed impressed, rather than alarmed. “I don’t know if they were feral. I just know they weren’t any of the manor dogs.”
“Has she ever gone after any of the manor dogs?” Ivar asked—a good question, in Kordas’s mind.
“No, but she knows them,” he pointed out. “And they don’t go into the pastures unless they’re with a handler.”
“Bay will be fine,” Ivar assured him. “He’s always on his best manners around horses. And I’ll make sure to introduce them properly. Oh, I have a question. Who is it safe to talk to, about you know what?”
“Assume no one, unless they bring it up with specifics and first let you know they’re warded,” Kordas cautioned. “Outside of the mages, most of my household doesn’t know.” He had a question of his own, though. “Why is it you’re so eager to take this on, anyway?”
“I don’t much care for Imperial civilization, or civilized places,” Ivar said frankly. “The last job I took put me up north, for the Empire. Luckily, there wasn’t anything up there the Emperor wanted—or at least, nothing he wants badly enough to open a second war front, while he’s still enmired up to his ass in the first one. The whole expedition was a slow push to find anyone and anything to exploit. Just—no sense of adventure from anyone but me, only a strict military operation with an eye for plunder. Timber and fish don’t interest him, thank the gods. I don’t want to do any more of those official forays; I’d rather rot of boredom. Your Plan? That suits me.”
They continued to talk all the way back to the manor, with Kordas becoming more and more comfortable with the younger man with every exchange. He watched how Ivar managed his horse: neck-rein and knee, mostly, which meant a skilled and considerate rider, and a confident and secure horse. The mastiff stayed about two lengths from the horse and even with the girth; the perfect distance to react to anything.
When they arrived at the manor, Kordas left Ivar, his dog, and his rucksack and bag with the chief steward, and took his horse and Ivar’s to the stable. As ever, Grim somehow materialized within moments of his crossing the threshold to the main stables.
“We have our scout, Grim,” he said. Grim nodded, since Kordas had kept him appraised of everything from the moment he had taken the reins of the Duchy. “Ivar Endicrag. This is his current horse, and I’m giving him Manta, so have her moved to a stall here tonight, please. He has a mastiff, so this is going to be interesting.”
Grim took the reins of Ivar’s horse, looked the beast over, checked the conformation and all four feet, and nodded approval. “Dog will not come amiss, if Manta will abide it.”
“If she won’t, Ivar’s not the man for this job, and I think he is,” Kordas replied, and left both horses in Grim’s care while he went back to the manor to wash up before dinner.
The chief steward met him at the door. “The young man is in your tower, ground floor guest room, m’lord.”
“Perfect, I can take him in to supper with me. Well done, Tomen.” He headed for the tower at a fast walk, and found Ivar already “settled,” insofar as such a footloose fellow could be, and once they were both respectable, led him to the Great Hall.
The steward had already arranged a new seat at the High Table, and as they entered the Hall Kordas saw that the entire family was watching the entrance to see who the guest was.
Supper was generally the lightest meal of the day, as breakfast was the most substantial. This, of course, was not how the Imperial Court did things; it wasn’t called “supper,” to begin with (that was far too countrified and peasant-like), and the evening meal was a huge multi-course affair that lasted hours, after which there would be music and entertainment into the late evening. This was a much simpler meal, and Ivar looked relieved to see that it was. It probably matched what Lord Endicrag served.
As he made introductions, Kordas looked directly into Isla’s eyes, and thought, Have you told Delia everything? knowing that she’d take the direct look as an invitation to read his thoughts. At her nod, he finished his introduction with, “ . . . and Ivar is a scout. His father thinks he can be useful to us, or at least, entertaining.”
“You might say I’m afflicted with wanderlust,” the young man laughed as he took his place at table. And for the rest of the meal he kept them well entertained with stories of his explorations—stories that turned the skeptical look on Hakkon’s face into one of satisfaction. Ivar managed to convey his competence without sounding like a common braggart, and his wonderment at the marvels of nature was infectious.