Lord Farbrier: A Short Story

Farbrier Keep crowned the motte, chalk-white walls aglow against dusk-purple skies. A chill breeze tugged at cloaks and reddened cheeks as the riders ascended. The path wove past defensive barriers, pointed logs sunk into the earth at every turn. Flames guttered in spearlike torch holders dotting the trail.
Muriel bent close to Kylan. “You remember our story for Lord Farbrier, no?”
“The question is, will you hold to it?”
“Meaning?”
“Unplanned alterations. As you did with my name.”
The corners of Muriel’s lips tugged upward. “Peckelbottom is a fine title.”
Kylan raised a fist to the sky. “I was to be the mighty Sir Ulstan Ironhammer.” He flicked the reins. “A knight, not your manservant.”
“You don’t have a mighty hammer. You have a stolen rapier.”

“Is that unusual?”
“Yes.”
The doors swung. Within stood Olem Tallowind, the steward. The disced belt at his waist and the torque at his neck gleamed ruddy-gold. His indigo-satin robes swirled as he bowed. “Lady Glimmersmere, please — be welcome.” A curt nod to Kylan. “Peckelbottom.” He raised a tarnished bronze staff and turned to allow the guests to pass. A Retainer clad in Farbrier livery slipped through to attend to Ezzy.
Warmth caressed the two. A bouquet of fresh bread and seasoned meats roused their appetites. The aromas put to pauper the meager fare they shared earlier.
Olem motioned to the guests and turned up a flight of stairs. “Lord Farbrier awaits. He is delighted you’ve come.”
Kylan paused. Cooks and bakers bustled. They chopped colorful vegetables, spun sizzling herb rubbed pork and veal over hot coals, and pulled warm bread from the ovens. Moisture flooded Kylan’s palate. Hunger sunk its painful talons further into his belly. He swallowed.
The trio wound to an upper level. Three times Olem thumped the butt of his staff on the floorboards. “My Lord Farbrier,” he announced in deep tones. “I present to you the lovely Lady Catherly Glimmersmere oth Treewhittle.” He waited. Kylan arrived. “And her manservant, escort, cousin, and protector; Purciel Peckelbottom oth Peckelbottom

Between narrow trestles iron candelabras festooned with glowing tapers stood at attention. The beeswax candles dispensed a honey-sweet fragrance over the affair.
At a long table, the Master of the Stronghold rested upon a lordly seat artfully clam-shelled by lacquered deer and moose horn. To the lord’s right sat a tall figure; bearded, wide of shoulder, swimming in blood red robes. Faded gray eyes peered from beneath thick black brows. Olem lowered himself to a seat next to the man.
Lord Farbrier’s great shaggy mane of rust-orange hair flowed to impressive whiskers. The silver of maturity touched it all. His gaze popped wide. A grin split away his mustache and crows feet stepped from the corners of his eyes. “Lady Glimmersmere, I’m so pleased my steward told me true.” He pushed himself upright. “You are beautiful.”
“It is kind my lord thinks so,” Muriel said. She bent a knee. The satin hem of her dress floated to the floor ringing smooth gold around a puff of red damask and patterned rose petals. The jewelry at her ears, neck, and fingers sparkled like crushed ice.
“You’ve met my steward. May I introduce?” Lord Farbrier swept his hand to his right, “Inquestor Mulketh Grimbrow. Here to purge us of unclean spirits, witches, and impure