The Warden

Epilogue

Steward of Asthurn, intoned Steward Jercons in his mind, as he strode along one of the many cluttered passages in the Forest Towers, the Domrae's ancestral home.

Saying it over in his head made a little, pleasurable tingle course up and down his body, though every time it declined ever so slightly.

Steward of Asthurn.

Again, the shiver came but almost undetectably less.

He frowned, sliding his tongue along the roof of his mouth as though tasting something unsavory. His frown deepened as he found no satisfactory solution to his diminishing returns. As steward to the house of Domrae, he knew all too well about diminishing returns. All too well.

Having gone over the accounts and ledgers and reports for the past several weeks, a more in-depth examination—he already knew the general state of things from his regular duties—an unacceptable truth had emerged. The Domraes, though poor by no means, never maximized on the potential they possessed.

He strolled along a corridor lined with handcrafted tables laden with flower arrangements, their stench tickled his nose with a cloying heaviness. Hands clasped behind his back, a thumb tapping away as his mind calculated facts and figures, he spared not a glance for the frivolities and knick-knacks that littered the space.

Such egregious oversight must be corrected, he thought. He picked up his pace, making his way toward his old master's study. Now, his study.

He had tried to convince Lord Domrae to adopt more aggressive strategies, more profitable policies, when it came to the management of Asthurn, but the man had not budged on the matter. Not one jot or tittle. Centuries of family tradition had befuddled his vision and good sense, stifling his ability to perceive the opportunities, the ponderous wealth that could be amassed.

"I have enough," Lord Domrae had said. "More than enough. It is better that I share my excess than stockpile it, don't you agree?"

Of course, as steward, he had been obligated to agree with Lord Domrae. If he had done otherwise, his long-departed father would have risen from the grave to tan his hide and twist his ear until due deference was shown. But all that had passed. Now, he was the master to defer to.

His heels clicked along the polished hardwood floor, muffled every so often as he strolled over a carpet. Coming to the imposing study door, he laid his hand on the latch as a new thought struck him. He paused there in consideration.

If I can show the king how industrious I can be, he thought, he might just transfer the duchy entirely to me and my line. Title, land, and all.

Shifting his weight to a single leg, still holding onto the latch, the steward cocked his head, as his mouth twitched with a sidelong grin.

Of course, the Domrae whelp had become the Warden and therefore no longer bore the Shadow mark. But the lad's new responsibilities would most likely keep him quite busy and require him to leave the running of Asthurn in his steward's capable and trustworthy hands. The boy could return, but as with all lofty endeavors an element of risk existed. This was a risk Steward Jercons gladly took.

Breaking off his musings, he turned the latch, putting his weight against the heavy door. It swung smoothly on its hinges, revealing the empty study with its massive, oaken desk at its center. Windows, stretching the entirety of the wall behind the desk, unshuttered, revealed the tolerable summer morning. One window had been cracked, allowing necessary air in. Distracting birdsong floated in as well. Books and other odds and ends occupied the shelves that lined the walls. Everything was as he had left it. Although he would have to get rid of some of the junk the Domrae family had accumulated over the years. Fresh morning air was necessary. Clutter on the other hand was not.