Chapter Text
Castellum Visci glitters in the sunlight.
It’s one of the few places in Tevinter where there’s both sun and snow. The former isn’t hard to come by outside Minrathous; the latter almost unheard-of, which is what makes the castle such a popular destination among those who can afford to attend its lavish charity events.
Those who do attend get their first glimpse of the castle from the wide, sweeping road as they approach. Its walls are pale, unbroken stone, textured only with the runes and glyphs that ward off everything from termites to Antaam. The buildings in the nearby village are built from blocks of the same stone, but Castellum Visci wasn’t assembled by the hands of slaves or citizens; it was raised wholesale from the earth by the ancestors of the wealthy Altus mages who now claim ownership of the property. Deep red roofs in the old Tevinter style grace its towers and outbuildings, snow piled on top of them where the sun doesn’t quite reach. The snow is everywhere; it lines the driveway in drifts, weighs down the boughs of the trees on either side of the approach, forms little caps on the lanterns and bushes and windowsills. Even now, with the sun shining, snowflakes sparkle in the crisp air, whirled about the expansive gardens by the breezes that dart from one shadow to the next. Every window glows with the warmth of firelight and the doors are hung with richly embellished wreaths that match the lush evergreen garlands draped along the eaves. Even the lamps that stand to either side of the grand entrance are decorated with the traditional ribbons—crimson for the gift of magic granted to the first Dreamers, gold for the promise of the returning sun, and green for the Tevinter Imperium itself.
This is Ashur Vesperian’s first glimpse of Castellum Visci as his carriage rounds a bend in the road and the estate’s majesty is revealed.
He is supremely unconvinced.
Oh, there’s no denying it’s beautiful. Beautiful and exclusive, the latter of which is of course what appeals to the guests the castle hosts each year for the winter solstice. The estate’s beauty is actually a downside for people who come to be seen rather than to see.
Ashur would prefer to do neither, but he is rarely afforded that choice. Between his family name, his position, and his seat in the Magisterium, hardly a moment passes in which there are no eyes on him.
Perhaps it’s because of this constant scrutiny that he treats Castellum Visci the same way—picking out the brown leaves that dot the ivy-covered curtain walls, wincing at the squeal of the gate’s rusting hinges, narrowing his eyes at the worn elbows of the staff’s plain uniforms. They’re all neatly appointed, arrayed at the doors of the castle to greet him with curtsies, bows, and deferentially downcast gazes, but in a place where everything is judged by its cover, Ashur can’t help but do the same.
Even so, the first real crack in the façade comes when he reaches the entrance. The castle’s heavy wooden double doors stand open, rich wood and ironwork contrasting with the green of the wreaths and garlands that adorn them—and, just to the right of the stone steps, a man with a surly expression and a threadbare uniform stands, glaring at Ashur out of the corner of his eye as though his disdain for the proceedings is too great to express.
Ashur is an Altus, a magister, a Vesperian. He’s used to being despised. He’s just not used to seeing it done quite so openly in a situation where—on a technicality—everyone works for him.
Nonetheless, he gives the man a polite nod of greeting as he passes through the doors. Inside, slaves and staff members rush to take his coat, his hat, the various trappings of his office. It’s meant to be part of Castellum Visci’s charm that visitors can’t tell the difference between the two—same uniforms, same titles, same treatment, other than the obvious—but Ashur can. He’s always been able to. It’s the little things—downcast eyes, hesitant gestures, something in the way they seem almost glad to claim a task and escape otherwise unscathed. That, he thinks, is as much the Vesperian legacy as this place.
He’s met by an elderly man in a crisp suit who describes himself as the butler. Staff, then. He’s a pompous man who points out to Ashur the housekeeper, the cook, the valets, and—somewhat to his surprise—the surly, bearded man still standing at the entrance as the steward. Ashur hasn’t heard that title in a long time, modern Minrathous households preferring the more au fait position of “estate manager,” but he supposes Castellum Visci is, after all, meant to be quaint and historical. Still, he would have expected the steward to take a more active role in his arrival under the circumstances.
Suitably stripped of his bags and heavy traveling clothes, Ashur stands in the castle’s vestibule, looking around him. He’d like to gasp in wonder like some of the Altus ladies who haven’t been here before or clear his throat decorously and offer a gratingly gauche compliment like the men who accompany them, but he can’t. It’s no less beautiful in here, with yet more evergreen garlands warring for space with rare boughs of holly and ground ivy and mistletoe imported all the way from Ferelden. The sunlight filters in through stained glass, casting the room in brilliant rainbows. The warm wood seems to glow gold over rich brown, the perfect counterpart to the cool white of the marble floors. On the stairs, a sumptuous rug offers relief for weary feet (and its wine-red color hides any stains left behind by incautious guests who might overindulge).
It’s beautiful but, like Ashur, it’s an act.
Even so, he’s curious. He hasn’t come far and, with little to occupy him before tonight’s gala, he’s not too tired to evade the anxious stares of the household and see what he can of the place without their solicitous assistance.
As his suitcase and bag disappear up the stairs without him and the staff scatter, Ashur steps quietly to one side and through a door into a long hall. Though it has been years since he was last here, he still remembers the place—not just the layout, but the feel of the worn carpet in these back rooms under his feet, the way the furniture looks used and homelike instead of museum-preserved, the smell of spices permeating from the kitchens. He remembers hiding here from the constant parade of magisters whose hands he was expected to shake and whose slaves he was expected to sneer at, lighting himself candles as the sun disappeared behind the trees and wondering whether anyone would notice him if he entered the kitchens to find some food instead of returning to the banquets laid out in the great halls. He remembers—
“You’re not supposed to be in here.”
His thoughts interrupted, Ashur turns to see the steward from earlier glaring at him. For a split second, he considers explaining himself, checks the instinct automatically (a Vesperian never would), then checks the instinct to behave like one of them as well. Ultimately, he settles on a quiet, almost embarrassed, “My apologies.”
The man waves him away. “This is a working estate,” he says. “There’s a reason doors are closed.”
Ashur is impressed despite himself. Even many of his peers in the Magisterium are afraid to cross him—some because of his name, others because of his titles. It’s clear that this man knows neither and equally clear that he doesn’t care to find out. Nonetheless, his curt correction makes Ashur feel once more like the small boy he remembers, albeit in a very different way. Again, he contemplates explaining himself, trying to think of a way to do it that won’t make things worse.
“You know,” he says, glancing out of the window as he turns back, “I used to—”
“Main hall is that way,” the steward interjects unnecessarily, indicating the door Ashur came through a few minutes ago. “I’ll send a valet to show you to your room.”
Ashur blinks a few times. He’s no more accustomed to being interrupted than he is to being lectured. It’s evident the man has no interest in hearing what he has to say and perhaps he ought to be offended by that, but somehow the irritation just isn’t there. The man is a steward. His job is to steward. Ashur can hardly be offended at being stewarded and, honestly, it’s a refreshing change to see someone actually doing their job. Maker knows it doesn’t happen in the Magisterium.
He glances back over his shoulder as a young valet shepherds him hastily up the stairs. The steward is glaring at him from the entryway, lit in shades of red and green and gold. He’s still not offended, though.
Perhaps intrigued would be a better word.
The steward may not know who Ashur is, but the rest of the staff certainly do. The younger maids and valets seem terrified of him, vanishing swiftly down corridors or behind closed doors as soon as they spot his approach. Their haste isn’t an act, though; Castellum Visci is bustling with anticipatory activity, faint sounds from kitchens and cellars and undercrofts betraying the illusion of calm that blankets the guest areas.
Since his admonition, Ashur has stayed firmly in the parts of the estate that are open to the public, browsing long portrait galleries of people who bear his features and leaving reluctant footprints in the gardens’ crisp early winter snow. In the spring, the rose gardens are crowded with blooms; in summer, bees hum between the trees and black-capped songbirds sing from above. Now, the lateness of the season deadens the air, making even his own breathing sound flat and false. The crunching of the snow underfoot, on the other hand, is almost surreally loud with little else to break the silence.
A much younger Ashur spent a lot of time out here. He’d walk out to the rose gardens or the labyrinth, calling the snow behind him to erase his tracks, and spend hours watching birds at the feeders or observing the household from a distance. He’d build ankle-high snow people, dozens of them, a miniature snow Magisterium, and plant his booted feet on top of his father’s nastiest associates, leaving only the ones he liked standing. (Maevaris was always left standing. Dorian, for a very long time, was not.)
Walking the labyrinth now is a very different experience. The hedges don’t seem so high anymore; the paths no longer stretch away into the distance. He used to enter cautiously, counting his steps and memorizing turns as though one wrong step could see him lost forever. Now, it’s less than a dozen strides from one turn to the next and he knows there are no dead ends, no traps to catch unwary travelers. Not any more, at least. Modern Tevinter wears at least a veneer of civility over its barbaric history. If Ashur wanted, he could part the leaves of the hedgerows and see the castle across the grounds—or, if he really wanted to act like the magister he apparently is, he could burn a hole straight through them. There’s a peace in this solitude, though, one Ashur rarely finds in the city; for a time, he can set aside the demands of his many roles and simply let his feet take him where they will.
In an hour or two, he will sit down to dinner with a dozen men and women of his father’s caliber. Footmen will bring him dainty appetizers, rare meats in rich sauces, sugared fruits from Rivain and Seheron. They will stand back, silently blending into the elaborate wallpaper, while the people seated at his side bore him with stories of their slaves or holidays or political machinations or whatever else takes their limited fancy. The rest of the evening will be even worse; he’ll be expected to remember what they tell him. Care about it. He might even be required to dance with some of them as though they wouldn’t bury a knife in his back if they thought it would advance their magisterial careers.
When the night draws to a close, they’ll eye one another up—were they seen enough? have they done enough? will the pretty words they’ve dropped in one another’s ears seal their alliances for the next year?—and slowly exit the hall, each one hanging back to ensure no one else claims their share of the attention after they’ve departed. Some will return to Minrathous; others, like Ashur, to the rooms they’ve been allocated in the castle, where they’ll evaluate the evening for its utility like they would a horse or a slave at auction. The castle itself will be no more than a backdrop, staff and furnishings vanishing into obscurity next to the harsh glitter of the gala’s attendees. Ashur doesn’t even know why they host it here anymore, except that Castellum Visci has become synonymous with grandeur and exclusivity. It’s excellent theater as long as no one looks behind the glamorous set dressing to realize there’s nothing to prop it up.
Ashur knows the value of a good performance. Ashur is an expert in performing flawlessly, just like his father was before him. Still, it grates on him to stand here, in this quiet, sparkling wonderland that resembles nothing else in the Imperium, and think about something so… false.
Shaking his head, he retraces his steps through the labyrinth. Soon enough, he’ll need to start getting ready for the evening’s events. No doubt some overly helpful valet, a member of the castle staff assigned to give him everything he needs for the duration of his stay, will hover around him, adjusting collars and polishing circlets and generally getting in the way. He’ll have to don the robes of a magister under the jewels of a Vesperian alongside the trappings of the Divine. It’s a balancing act, one he’s well used to, and—as always—the layers of refined disguise will occupy enough attention to mask his fourth and final role.
He pauses before he reaches the labyrinth’s entrance, Castellum Visci still concealed behind the walls of greenery. Concealed—that’s what he’s thinking about. It has been years since he spent any real time here, preferring to attend each solstice gala as briefly as possible before escaping back to Minrathous; most of the time, he doesn’t even spend the night. So it’s perhaps unsurprising that it has taken him this long to realize the castle, with its many entrances and airing cupboards, chambers and corridors, nooks and crannies and corners of every description, might hold promise for activities other than political performance.
He files the thought away for further consideration.
Ashur’s robes make almost no sound as he moves, the rich velvet and silk brocade too heavy to do more than rustle faintly with each step. If he wanted, the various adornments of his stations—the modest diadem of the Divine, the heavy chain of the office of Grand Enchanter, the elegant jewels of House Vesperian—would signal his arrival, chiming musically as he descended the stairs and mingling with the music in the grand ballroom. Ashur is a man of simplicity, though, and he wears as few accessories as he can get away with and still uphold the appearance of his office. Unlike most of tonight’s attendees, he would rather see than be seen; rather listen than be heard.
A polite tap on his door signals the arrival of yet another manservant or underbutler, probably here to inform him that the gala is underway and that Magister Vesperian is expected. They may want Magister Vesperian, but what they’re getting is Ashur. He’ll leave it to them to decide whether or not that outcome is satisfactory.
Someone adjusts the drape of his robes at the back. Someone else reaches for his neck and, predictably, rearranges his collar, smoothing the embroidered edges. Without meaning to, he ducks his head as a third hand reaches for his diadem. He can see himself in the polished surface of the mirror, arrayed in enough pointless splendor to match the elaborate frame, and it’s fine. He looks fine. Perhaps someone will notice if the diadem is crooked; perhaps someone will question his decision to wear only the most significant of his family’s symbols and signifiers. They’ll talk because that’s what they do, but Ashur isn’t afraid of talk. He cares about his reputation in the Magisterium, of course, because reputation is wealth and wealth is influence and influence is power. He just doesn’t care about the petty barbs his peers trade amongst themselves, which itself lends him a rare kind of power.
“Thank you,” he says—a respectful dismissal, but a dismissal nonetheless. There are a precious few seconds of peace between the doors of his chambers and his official entrance to the gala and he craves the quiet they offer. The slaves and servants disappear into the woodwork and Ashur watches them thoughtfully as they go, wondering how many tunnels and back rooms and concealed entrances they use to do their jobs. But that, again, is a thought for another time—when he can shed the identities he’s layered on for tonight’s event and turn his attention to the one he won’t be advertising.
“His Perfection, the Imperial Divine, Grand Enchanter of the Imperial Circle of Magi, youngest heir to House Vesperian…”
Ashur tunes out most of his introduction. (He’s not fond of “youngest heir.” If it’s of such significance to them that he has older siblings, why aren’t they representing the family tonight? He’d happily hand over the obligation, but they insist on having the name of House Vesperian preceded in public by his many weighty titles.) When the man at the top of the stairs stops heralding his arrival, though, he proceeds down the steps in the same way he has every year for longer than he feels like he’s been alive. He strikes an imposing figure and he knows it. His deep green robes contrast with the rich dark red of the stair runner; the gold accoutrements glimmer in the light of hundreds of candles set in dozens of chandeliers and candelabras, the cooler light of the mage-lanterns accenting his eyes and the subtle glint of the Vesperian birthright at his sternum. The contrasts between light and shadow are deliberately exaggerated—appropriate, he thinks, for a family that does the same.
As soon as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he’s flanked—Verixsus on one side, no doubt hoping to oil Ashur up for a boost to his reputation, and Dulcia on the other, likely aiming to oil him up in a very different way. He sighs, squares his shoulders, and prepares himself for a long evening of biting his tongue hard and pretending at bland tolerance.
As he turns, a shadow in a corner catches his eye. The steward from earlier is standing there, glaring at the proceedings the way Ashur wishes he could. It’s only a split second before he sees Ashur watching him and turns the glare in his direction, but Ashur can’t disagree. After all, to him, there’s likely little difference between one magister and the next.
Dinner is an excruciating affair. Each place setting bears a name card, meaning that Ashur has no hope of selecting for himself the least objectionable company. He sits through an hour of pointless conversation barely enhanced by Nocen shrimp in cocktail sauce, tentacle salad, and vine leaves stuffed with not just rice and herbs, but ground venison as well, taken from the herds that live on the estate. Another half hour is filled with Antivan seafood soup and descriptions of Magister Aurarius’ plans for the Circles (which, Ashur has to admit, are at least vaguely reasonable; he’s not particularly interested in hearing them now, but this is one of Aurarius’ most effective tactics—he lies in wait for a captive audience, then talks at it until he wrings out something that could be considered an agreement if looked at in the right light).
It’s as the footmen are bringing out great platters of main courses—galantines of the tenderest Orlesian veal; fat oxen skewered and roasted over the great kitchen fires; and the crowning glory, swans gilded in gold leaf with a gravy of river-herring that trickles down onto beds of roasted potatoes, steamed beans, and pickled cubes of ox-tongue—that Ashur’s ear is caught by the mutterings that come from several seats away. He recognizes the speakers not just from the Magisterium, but also from past meetings (attended under duress) with Castellum Visci’s board of governors. Despite the delicacies in front of them and the rustic elegance that surrounds them, neither sounds happy even in the fragments of conversation Ashur can make out.
“… seen the budget for next year? I don’t know how they’re going to…”
“… funding gilded swans while the infrastructure slowly…”
He leans as close as he dares, trying to block out the sound of Aurarius’ voice in one ear to focus on the more distant voices in the other. A slight stab of guilt nudges him as one of the staff lays a choice cut of gold-flecked meat on his plate.
“… thank the Maker it’s smaller this year because we couldn’t have…”
“… gets smaller every year…”
A small, cold feeling makes itself known in the pit of Ashur’s stomach. It’s obvious they’re talking about Castellum Visci and equally obvious the news isn’t good. To his eyes, the gala is well-attended, at least on the scale of highly exclusive events, but it’s true that a number of the faces he remembers aren’t here this year. Mae isn’t, of course, after the manufactured scandal that claimed her titles and privileges, but there are others missing who don’t have Mae’s excuses. And fewer attendees means fewer donations, which means less budget to keep Castellum Visci running smoothly…
“… roof hasn’t been seen to in years…” one of them is saying. The other’s response is almost too quiet to hear, but Ashur manages to catch, “… won’t be long before the place is…”
He doesn’t need to hear the rest, or perhaps he simply doesn’t want to. The picture painted by the sentence fragments is clear enough: dwindling attendance, declining funds, and increasing costs. He’s noticed himself that the wood, though carefully waxed and polished, is showing its age; the rugs are not as plush as he remembers; the portraits in the gallery are yellowing despite clear evidence of meticulous cleaning.
The muttering is louder again, enough so that, even without trying, he hears the first speaker say, “… might have to sell the place.” The second nods, lips tugging downward into a moue of disappointment.
Ashur can’t keep his gaze from flicking to the corner, where the steward stands, frowning as he watches the magisters dine and listens to their conversations. He’s still wearing the uniform he had on this afternoon, the one whose fabric has the slight sheen of too many washings and wearings, the one whose elbows are just faded enough to be noticeable. He must know, Ashur thinks; the head of the household must understand the cost of its upkeep, must be aware that there are board members who think selling the castle is a real possibility.
A quiet throat-clearing at his elbow calls his attention to a dish of roasted figs in custard made from the milk of Rivaini gulabi goats, garnished with elderberries Ashur knows were grown in Castellum Visci’s own orchards. His appetite has vanished, veal and swan and potatoes still largely untouched in front of him, but even so he lets them clear his plate away and begin heaping fruits and pastries and Carastian candied chocolates in front of him instead.
The steward’s scowl deepens—and then his eyes meet Ashur’s. For a split second, his anger narrows to a point, directed straight at Ashur, before he turns and leaves the room as though called to an urgent errand.
His reaction does Ashur’s mood no favors, but Ashur understands it nonetheless. If Castellum Visci really is in trouble, it’s as much the fault of his neglect as anything. Years have passed since he spent any meaningful time here. He has never liked the gala or the people who attend it and, since leaving his childhood behind, he’s had little time or patience to spare for the estate he sees as yet another anchor of his family’s legacy around his neck. Another shiny bauble to flaunt in the Magisterium. Another marvel built on the blood of slaves. A place to make a dutiful appearance and then forget as soon as possible.
So why, then, is the cold hollow in the pit of his stomach still there?
Ashur is distracted for the rest of the evening. Conversations happen around him; he offers vague gestures and murmurs of assent that are carefully calculated to avoid commitment. People clasp his hand like old friends, bow to him like respectful worshippers, and exchange unsubtle barbs well within earshot about his clothing, his dancing, his politics. In that way, it’s no different to any other such affair, although Ashur is perhaps putting less effort than usual into pretending to care deeply about the proceedings. When he’s drawn into discussions, he nods along while wondering whether Magister Pellinar will add as much to Castellum Visci’s funds as he spent on his elaborately embellished robes. When Dulcia seizes his arm and drags him into a dance, he watches her shoes on the well-worn floor and wonders how many more years of use the boards will see. When, afterward, she tucks his arm in her own and takes him to the tables of refreshments, the chandeliers’ many candles sparkle in the crystal glasses of Celestine black and he wonders whether, perhaps, it’s madness to light so many candles, to use such extravagant dishes, if plain glass and magelights could mean the difference between keeping and losing the estate.
It’s not, of course, that the Vesperian fortune couldn’t save the castle on its own. Ashur would be shocked if that were true. But he is, after all, the youngest heir to House Vesperian and, despite his presence here today, it doesn’t fall to him to determine where that money is promised. At most, he could buy Castellum Visci a stay of execution—but there’s no point in that if it won’t change the ultimate outcome.
As partygoers slowly detach themselves from the celebration—to their carriages, to their palanquins, to their rooms in the castle—Ashur’s thoughts slowly detach themselves from the night’s gala and settle on an unlikely target.
He moves gracefully around the room, dropping a nod here, a handshake there, a deferential dip of the head or wave of the fingers, until he reaches the butler who introduced him to the staff. “The steward,” he says and the man raises his eyebrows politely. “What did you say was his name?”
They both know the butler didn’t offer a name, but the fiction is maintained. “Tarquin, Most Holy,” the man says. “Would you have me call for his services?”
Ashur shakes his head. “Thank you, no,” he says. “We’ll speak tomorrow.”
It’s a promise he intends to keep, assuming the steward—Tarquin—allows it. He needs to know exactly what Castellum Visci’s situation really is. Are the board considering selling it just because it has become a slight inconvenience, no longer as novel and glamorous as it once was? Or is it truly unable to sustain itself, slowly decaying even as they cover it in layer after layer of glitz to hide its crumbling bones?
And is it somehow Ashur’s fault for having neglected this place so long?
None of his questions will be answered tonight, but the last dying embers of the Winter Solstice Gala no longer hold any interest for him. He nods to those who are still dancing, drinking, or engaging in thinly disguised verbal combat and makes his way up the stairs. Above him, one of the younger and more enthusiastic valets, leaning over the banister to see whose footsteps are creaking on the stairs, rushes off down the dimly lit corridor. No doubt when Ashur reaches his chambers, there will be a fire in the grate (lit by hand; none of the staff here are magically gifted), a finely wrought porcelain washbasin and jug filled with fresh, fragranced hot water, and a stone warmer at the foot of the bed to banish the chill from the sheets.
In some small, slightly shameful way, he’s looking forward to it. It’s this, he thinks, that people love about Castellum Visci—that he loves about Castellum Visci. Its Serault glass windows radiate warmth and light like a shield against the cold, dark night beyond them. Faint sounds of merriment still filter up the stairs from the grand ballroom below. Inside his room, the fire crackles, stirring up memories of past solstices and the child who ran through the castle, eagerly setting the hearths alight with newly manifested magic. The castle is a bastion of comfort and safety, a promise that no harm will come to those within its walls.
As he slips between the sheets, stretching to touch cold feet to the stone warmer, he thinks about the people he’s left behind in Minrathous. Not the ones who stare at him every day in the Magisterium or at the Circle or in the chantry, but the ones whose eyes follow him hungrily in the street. The ones who have no home save the hideouts the Shadow Dragons hold for them. The ones who can never be sure of comfort or safety or trust.
He closes his eyes and thinks—Castellum Visci could mean something to those people.
That would be a legacy worth saving.
The first thing he does after waking the next morning is send for a valet to take a message. His return to Minrathous will be delayed; he has business at Castellum Visci that he intends to complete before departing. He asks to have the message delivered to Magister Pavus because Dorian is one of very few people who can ensure that it reaches everyone who needs the information (and perhaps the only one he can contact without arousing suspicion).
Then he goes to find Tarquin.
It’s the butler who waylays him first, though. Ashur can’t recall his name—can’t even recall whether he offered one or just his title—but the tone of his voice pushes just over the edge of deferential and into irksome. Smarmy, one might even say. He’s heard Magister Vesperian will be extending his stay with them. Can he offer any assistance with Magister Vesperian’s business? Is there anything Magister Vesperian needs to enhance his comfort?
“Thank you,” he says. He’s been here less than 24 hours and yet the polite refusal is already becoming a habit. At the Manor, at the Spire, the people who surround him know he prefers to keep to himself; in the same way, Ashur understands the need to submit to their ministrations. Here, though, the over-the-top service offered by people whose jobs exist for the amusement of the Altus class only reminds him of the reason he’s staying on here. Ashur isn’t interested in being served and, if there’s one thing his faith has taught him, it’s that there can be no serving the Maker without serving His children.
Once he’s managed to extricate himself from the butler, Ashur wanders the estate, keeping an eye out for the steward, but equally paying attention to the property itself. Now that he’s looking, it’s clear the castle is not what it once was; there are cracks in the stone, chips in the window glass, even a tile or two missing from the roof. Decorated for the solstice, the place looks warm and homelike, but underneath, he can see the edges of the illusion starting to fray.
Near one of the side entrances, he encounters a chambermaid. She curtsies and makes to hurry off, taking care not to make eye contact. He stops her. He wants to ask if she’s happy here, if she’s treated well—but those are not appropriate questions from a man of his station, so instead he asks her about the castle, its upkeep, its hierarchy. She answers what she can and, with many more curtsies and apologies, directs him to the steward for the rest. He thanks her because it’s all he can do.
The scene repeats itself several times: with the coachman by the front steps, with a groundskeeper in the winter garden, with the head cook in the kitchen. Slowly, Ashur is beginning to piece together a fuller picture of the goings-on behind the scenes at Castellum Visci. Even as he’s taking in the extent of the estate’s troubles, though, it’s obvious that there are missing details—ones he suspects only Tarquin will be able to provide.
It’s almost noon before he finds his way to the back corridors of the castle again. There are no rich carpets here; even so, he walks so softly that his footfalls can barely be heard. Some part of him is still waiting, like a small child, to be caught and admonished just as he was yesterday. Today, though, the only people in these hallways are the housemaids who scurry back and forth with arms full of linens and the boys—underbutlers, hall boys, gardeners’ assistants—whose heavy bags bang against their legs with every step. They give him a wide, cautious berth and, courteously, he keeps to the side of the corridor and nods unseen greetings as they go by.
There’s a closed door halfway down the corridor. It’s the only one that isn’t open, inviting light hinting at uncovered windows and open spaces, so of course, that’s where Ashur is going.
Tentatively, he knocks, and then immediately feels stupid. Castellum Visci has been in his family for centuries. He owns this hall, this door, the room behind it. (With a faint, sick feeling, he realizes he may own the man behind it.) Knocking at all is a courtesy most guests wouldn’t afford; that he’s apprehensive about doing so is ridiculous.
Still, he’s forced to knock a second time before a noise of irritation comes from somewhere behind the door and it’s wrenched roughly open to reveal the steward—Tarquin—himself standing in the doorway.
“What d’you—” he begins, obviously annoyed, but then realizes it’s not one of the staff he’s speaking to. The frustrated look on his face doesn’t change, but he has at least enough sense of self-preservation to stop before he finishes his sentence. A moment passes in which the two stare at one another before Tarquin clears his throat and says, “Well?”
Ashur wraps himself in roles like layers of a disguise. He is accustomed to maintaining his equanimity no matter what seeks to disrupt it. Even so, it takes him a moment to react to Tarquin’s total lack of deference—a deep contrast to the way everyone else treats him.
“I… was hoping we could discuss the estate.”
Tarquin sighs, but jerks his head back as if to invite Ashur to join him. He doesn’t offer a chair or a preamble, just closes the door and asks bluntly, “What d’you want to know?”
As Ashur expected, Tarquin is fully aware of the estate’s troubles, financial and otherwise. Like Ashur himself, the man holds many roles: steward, seneschal, manager, bookkeeper, maintenance man and, apparently, anything else Castellum Visci finds itself needing. Not only that but, as he takes Ashur through the books, it’s evident that he knows what he’s doing. The juggling of budgets, donations, and repair costs has been going on for years. Tarquin has carefully noted each necessity, prioritized them, and—somehow—made the most important ones happen. The neatly written numbers paint a clear picture. Tarquin has been doing everything he can to keep the castle open, but it’s increasingly clear that everything he can is not enough.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me about this?”
Tarquin shrugs. It’s almost a hostile gesture. “Didn’t know you cared.”
Ashur’s immediate reaction is affront, but he swallows it down. He thinks he can understand Tarquin’s point of view. It’s not as though he’s spent much time at the castle, not in years, and—until yesterday—he’s been happy to simply forget it existed beyond the obligatory Winter Solstice Gala each year. Despite his name, despite his family ties, Ashur has been little more than a casual visitor with no real attachment to Castellum Visci. And Tarquin clearly cares about the castle; although he speaks like someone with little interest in what he’s saying, the careful notes, the small gestures, the look on his face while he outlines the extent of the issues, betrays him. Small wonder, then, that Tarquin has been handling matters himself, managing problems as they arise rather than calling attention to them.
When Tarquin finishes talking, there’s silence. Ashur chews the inside of his lip, weighing up the options. There aren’t many. That things have reached this point without his knowledge is part of the problem, but he can’t seem to rouse any anger. After all, it’s his own fault he hasn’t been more involved—and now, he might lose the estate he’s only just beginning to realize he wants.
They both might.