As the household at Wescliffe was settling down for a quiet night, another household was being disturbed. A cloaked rider, braving the cold and damp, arrived at the residence of Fain-Arn’s Governor at the gallop.
The rider sprang from his horse, ran to the door and hammered upon it muttering curses under his breath as the servants hurried to answer his summons. The gentleman who opened the door to him was of advanced years. He’d served as butler at Math Calran for just over forty years and little now could trouble him.
“May I help you sir?” The rain was heavy and the night dark so he raised the lamp to better see this nocturnal guest.
“Indeed you may. I wish to see my father.”
“Master Tristan?” The old man’s voice quavered and the lamp trembled.
“Of course. Did you think, or hope, that I had left for good?”
“You are not welcome here!” The door began to close but suddenly it sprang inward, trapping the servant behind it and slamming him against the wall. The lamp tumbled to the floor, shattered and went out.
“Then an unwelcome guest I shall be!” Tristan replied shortly and strode into the building. A flick of his hand slammed the door shut against the night, and allowed the servant to slump to the floor where blood now mingled with the lamp oil.
Galvin D’Shan was in the library. He looked up as the door opened suddenly without warning and met a pair of eyes as strong and unyielding as his own. Gently, he closed the book.
“Father.” Tristan stepped into the room yet his face, like the rest of him, remained partially hidden within a cloak that appeared to generate a shadow all of its own.
“Tristan. You should not look for welcome here. You left under a shadow of your own making. Your time since has been spent in darkness of a worse sort, if I hear aright.”
“You were always well informed, father,” Tristan replied evenly. “You cast me out, and I have been forced to find a path for myself. I have learned much, and now I have decided to return.”
“Why? There is nothing for one of your kind here.”
“There is everything for me here!” Tristan’s voice rang with anger. “Am I not of your line? The Governorship of this island is mine to claim. And I feel the time is close when I shall do so.”
“Indeed?” The Governor rose to his feet slowly, wincing slightly as he did so.
“Age lies heavy upon you, father, does it not?”
“Not so heavy as you would wish, son.” Galvin’s eyes met those of the son he had disowned with a mixture of sorrow and resolute anger. “Your claim to my title was removed when you left. The King would not recognise you, nor would he ever tolerate your presence here. As your father, I give you leave to go free this night – but be warned that the sentence of banishment is upon you and if ere your face is seen again you will suffer for it.” Tristan took a swift step forward, his hands raised to strike. “NO!” The Governor of Fain-Arn raised his walking stick to protect himself and Tristan recoiled.
“May you rot in eternal suffering,” the younger man hissed venomously as he backed away. “Very well, father, you need time to think. I say this to you. I have returned and I am here to stay. If you attempt to thwart me, if you set yourself against my will, then you shall pay a high price indeed. I will break you. I will bring sorrow to you and any who oppose me. The King cannot aid you and there are non in the entire Kingdom with the power to set themselves against me. I shall allow you a few days to consider this. Good night – and take care until next we meet.” He spun about and departed the house, leaving his father to discover the corpse in his front hall.
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