The Godfather's Promise

In the autumn of the year he turned twelve, King Grendor Valdras commanded his half-brother, Grand Duke Drasken, to take Kasvren Selvain — heir of the Selvain Marquisate — as his godson. It was to be the first and last meeting between Kasvren and the Grand Duke.

On the day of the ceremony, Kasvren was so tense that his face had set like stone, and he chewed the inside of his lip until it was ragged. The sash draped across his shoulder, the epaulets, the formal clothes and shoes tailored specially for the day — every piece of it seemed to prick at him like a bramble of thorns. Just before the dread of becoming a laughingstock could swallow the boy whole, a voice reached his ears.

"There is no need to be so nervous. This is no difficult ceremony."

Though they would meet only that once, the man left a searing impression in Kasvren's young mind. Jet-black hair, and black eyes whose depths could not be fathomed. Draped, too, in a black mantle with a silver epaulet bestowed by the King upon one shoulder, he looked at once like a herald of death and like a wise old sage.

"I am overjoyed to welcome you as my godson. From this day forward, I shall watch over your growth as your godfather. I promise you shall never want for my counsel or my advice. But Kasvren — my newborn godson — your eyes already tell me a great deal. Cleverness and a kind heart overflow in you, and my joy at gaining a son such as you is more than words can tell."

Even now, Kasvren remembered vividly the sensation of the Grand Duke's hand resting upon his head. Without that man's generosity and thoughtful guidance, he would not only have ruined the ceremony outright but become a standing joke for years to come. Grand Duke Drasken had been nothing less than a benefactor who had pulled the young Kasvren back from the very brink of a pit. That such a man would watch over his growth — Kasvren had felt a joy without end.

But Grand Duke Drasken could not keep that promise. In the year he turned fourteen, Kasvren received word of the Grand Duke's passing.

Young as he was, he had wanted to run to Dravenmoor Grand Duchy at once, but House Selvain barred the way. They could hardly send a boy so young off alone — and besides, the King's open wariness of his half-brother had stretched on so long that the whole of the Drasken kin had withdrawn into the Grand Duchy, living there in a silence like the grave.

Marquis Selvain, ever alert to the shifting scales of advantage, showed no deep regret over the death of a Grand Duke whose house had waned; he offered Kasvren a word or two of condolence, and nothing more.

Kasvren, a boy of tender feeling, was desolate at being unable to attend his godfather's funeral, and he sat alone writing out a letter of mourning. Whether it ever reached Dravenmoor he could not know — but he hoped, desperately, that it had. Even if he could not dream of his letter being laid to rest in the coffin of the godfather he revered, he wanted someone, anyone, to read it and know that somewhere a godson grieved the Grand Duke's death.

"Have you ever seen that letter, by any chance?"

It was a question threaded with hope, but Isolde shook her head.

"I couldn't say. The year after my father passed, my mother passed as well. She never told me much of anything. But directly after my father's death, she burned every one of his personal effects and letters. I'm afraid it's quite likely your letter was mixed in among them."

Kasvren was disappointed inwardly, but he kept his manners.

"You met with misfortune upon misfortune. My condolences."

"It was all a long time ago. Do go on with your story."

Kasvren swallowed drily, then let out a long breath.

"Everything changed after that. Literally — everything."

His voice had dropped very low. Unable to suppress the sneer welling up from somewhere deep in his chest, he picked up a piece of meat and put it in his mouth. It was rich with savory flavor, yet it gave him no pleasure whatsoever. No — it was like chewing on a stone; he could taste nothing at all.

The year he turned fifteen, the Marchioness Selvain conceived without warning. It was, naturally, a child of the Marquis — but after all those long years without a single pregnancy, even the couple had seemed more bewildered than delighted, and Kasvren could still see them as though it stood before his eyes. Yet from the moment the family physician called and pronounced that the pregnancy was certain, that mother and child were both in good health, but that the mother was of an advanced age and must take absolute rest from that point on for the good of body and mind alike, the atmosphere of House Selvain changed completely.

The Marchioness's attention slid away from Kasvren with remarkable speed. Absorbed in nurturing the child within her, she spared no thought for anything else. The Marquis, for his part, withheld no support where his wife was concerned. Leaving all but the gravest matters to her head lady-in-waiting and the steward, the Marchioness passed her days shut in her chambers — admiring beautiful paintings, commissioning new dresses, buying jewels — each one spent in ease and glitter.

Woe to anyone whose noise reached the Marchioness's ears — a shattered dish, a dropped vase — for they would earn three slaps across the face from the head lady-in-waiting. The servants grew ever more reluctant to come near wherever the Marchioness might be; only gifted musicians, poets, or painters capable of soothing and delighting her moods could come and go with any freedom.

"And you?"

At Isolde's question as she listened, Kasvren gave a bitter smile.

"I could never go near her. My mother… yes, the woman I once called Mother — after she conceived, she would grimace at the sight of my face as though she were looking upon something ill-omened. So I kept my distance. I went out of my way to avoid her."

Then, the following year — in the spring before Kasvren's sixteenth birthday — the Marchioness endured a vicious labor and delivered twin sons. The Marquis, near enough to dancing for joy, bestowed upon his sons the beautiful names of Theron and Gavrel.

One by one, those who spared Kasvren any regard fell away. The household's sharp attentions and nerves converged wholly upon the two milk-scented infants — even the Marquis and Marchioness's. Noble boys of sixteen made their debut into high society, a kind of rite of passage by which they were acknowledged as young men in their own right, but not a soul concerned themselves with Kasvren's debut. To make matters worse, having lost his godfather besides, he never learned the accomplishments essential to any gentleman.

Around that time, he was like a porcupine with every quill raised. Crushed beneath his own sense of inferiority, he drifted apart from Johan as well.

"Even so, Johan forgave me. He's a good friend."

Isolde, who had been listening quietly with nothing more than the occasional blink, abruptly lifted her glass. Kasvren stared at her, nonplussed.

"Are you proposing a toast?"

"As an expression of condolence."

It nearly drew a wry laugh from him, but Kasvren willingly touched his glass lightly to hers and took a swallow of his drink. Isolde set hers back down without drinking. She looked for all the world like a girl in a fairy tale, eyes shining as she waited for the next part of the story — and despite himself, Kasvren could not help but smile inwardly. Even if what he had lived through was neither a fairy tale nor one of the songs the old poets used to recite.

After that, Kasvren's memories grew dim. Perhaps because each day he did nothing but repeat the same round of tasks and sink into sleep, over and over?

Without any sense of the time slipping past, he found himself eighteen years old. On the birthday of his young twin brothers, now two, the Marquis and Marchioness did not permit Kasvren to appear at the party. It was an unspoken command. In all likelihood, no one had asked after him at all.

That day, Kasvren understood that he had become a presence wholly erased from the house. The party carried on late into the night, the guests dancing and drinking, celebrating and celebrating again the birthday of twins long since worn out and asleep. Kasvren shut himself inside his room and listened to the music, the dancing feet, the laughter. He smelled flowers, perfume, and gifts.

"Late that night, a maid brought me a single slice of cake. It was one of the failures from the twins' birthday cake — one of the batches the hired staff had to divide up and eat among themselves. The cake served at the party, of course, surely wasn't so wretched. Though if it had been, that would have been its own sort of joke."

Having said his piece, he gulped down his wine.

Without a word, Isolde rang the bell to summon Rad Dat and tipped her chin toward Kasvren's glass, bidding him fill it with more wine. Rad Dat faithfully carried out her command, set the bottle down upon the table, and withdrew. For some reason, Kasvren tracked the butler's retreating back with what felt like angry eyes before closing his own. His beautiful golden lashes, like a wheat field at harvest, cast a fine and crowded shadow over the rims of his eyes.

The year he turned nineteen, Kasvren met the last person he expected: a notary of the Grand Ducal House of Drasken. The man delivered the effects the Grand Duke had left behind, with the message that 'he had commanded they be handed over in the year you came of age.' Most of it was jewelry. Among the pieces was a ring of House Drasken set with a red gem.

"But back then I simply… simply left them be. The changes in the world around me were gnawing me hollow. The regret that I should have gone through my godfather's effects with care — that came only later. It's with me even now."

Isolde shrugged.

"There's an old saying, isn't there — that a valley already crossed need never be looked back upon."

"You're quite right. Which makes me a fool, no doubt. While the twins were growing, I ought to have been finding a way to live — my own way to live. But I only thought about it; I never once acted. If anyone were to ask me why, I'd be too ashamed to give an answer. I kept hoping my adoptive parents still saw me as their heir — still saw me as their son. Johan, my dear friend, who never spared me his harsh words either, told me it was already too late and urged me to prepare for a new life on new ground, but I would not hear him. Only in the year my twin brothers turned seven did I finally, keenly, understand that Johan had been right all along."