And now he was mine.
There was a formal investiture after the tourney, of course. Arends love ceremonies. The three dukes, dressed in semi-regal finery, escorted the hero into my presence and formally asked me if this beautiful young man was acceptable to me. What an absurd question that was. I recited the formulaic little speech that enrolled Count Ontrose as my champion, and then he knelt to swear undying allegiance to me, offering up the ‘might of his hands’ in my defense. It wasn’t really his hands that interested me, though.
Baron Lathan was in attendance with his left arm in a sling. His unhorsing had severely sprained his shoulder. His face was very pale, and there were even tears of disappointment in his eyes during the ceremony. Some competitors simply cannot bear to lose. He once again formally congratulated Ontrose, which I thought was very civilized of him. There have been times in Arendia when the loser of a jousting match has declared war on the winner. Lathan and Ontrose had been friends, and that evidently hadn’t changed.
We lingered for a time at the fair, and then returned to Vo Wacune, where Ontrose took up residence in my town house.
As autumn touched the leaves, my champion and I rode north so that I could familiarize him with the peculiarities of the duchy of Erat.
‘I have been advised, your Grace, that serfdom doth no longer prevail within thy boundaries, and I do confess that I have been much intrigued by that fact. The emancipation of they who stand – or grovel – at the lowest level of society is an act of sublime humanity, but I am hard put to understand how it is that the economy of this duchy hath not collapsed. Prithee, enlighten me concerning this wonder.’
I wasn’t entirely certain if his education had descended into the labyrinthine sphere of economics, but I tried to explain just how it was that my duchy prospered without serfdom. I was startled – and pleased – by how quickly he grasped certain concepts that had taken me whole generations to pound into the thick heads of my vassals.
‘In fine then, my Lady, it seemeth to me that thy realm doth still rest upon the backs of the former serfs – not in this case upon their unrequited labor, but rather upon their wages. For certes, now can they purchase such goods as previously were beyond them quite. The merchant class prospers, and their share of the tax burden doth lighten the load borne by the land-owners, thy vassals. The prosperity of the former serf is the base upon which the economy of the entire realm doth stand.’
‘Ontrose,’ I told him, ‘you’re a treasure. You grasped in moments what’s eluded some of my vassals for six hundred years.’
He shrugged. ‘It is no more than simple mathematics, your Grace,’ he replied. ‘An ounce apiece from the many doth far exceed a pound apiece from the few.’
‘Nicely put, Ontrose.’
‘I rather liked it,’ he agreed modestly.
We talked of many things on our journey north, and I found my young – well, relatively young – champion to have a quick and agile mind. He also had an uncharacteristic urbanity that reminded me a great deal of my dear friend Kamion back on the Isle of the Winds.
He was suitably impressed by my manor house, and he had the uncommon good sense to make friends with my Killane-descended retainers. Moreover, his enthusiasm for roses at least equaled my own. His conversation was a delight, his impromptu concerts on his lute – often accompanied by his rich baritone – brought tears to my eyes, and his ability to grasp – and question – obscure philosophical issues sometimes astounded me.
I found myself beginning to have thoughts I probably shouldn’t have had. In my mind, Ontrose was becoming more than a friend. That’s when mother stepped in. ‘Polgara,’ her voice came to me one night, ‘this isn’t really appropriate, you know.’
‘What isn’t?’ My response wasn’t really very gracious.
‘This growing infatuation of yours. This isn’t the man for you. That part of your life is still a long way in the future.’
‘No, mother, it’s not. What you choose to call “that part of my life” will come whenever I decide it’s going to come, and there’s nothing that you or anybody else can do to change my mind. I’m tired of being pulled around on a string. It’s my life, and I’ll live it any way I choose.’
‘I’m trying to spare you a great deal of heartache, Pol.’
‘Don’t bother, mother. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get some sleep.’
‘As you wish, Pol.’ And then the sense of her presence was gone.
Well, of course it was rude. I realized that even as I was saying it. That particular confrontation crops up in just about everyone’s life. It usually comes a bit earlier, however.
By morning, I was more than a little ashamed of myself, and as time went on I regretted my childish reaction more and more. Mother’s presence had always been the central fact of my life, and my little outburst had erected a wall between us that took years to tear down.
I won’t demean what I felt for Ontrose by calling it an infatuation. I will admit that what was happening in my personal life distracted my attention from something I was supposed to be watching more closely, however. The second Garteon had been succeeded by yet a third in Asturia. Garteon III was an even bigger scoundrel than his father or grandfather had been, and most of his animosity seemed to be directed at Wacune. It was fairly obvious that there were close ties between Wacune and Erat, and the Oriman family had apparently concluded that my duchy could not survive without Wacite support. The Asturian animosity toward me personally wasn’t really too hard to understand, and it probably dated back to the time of Duke Nerasin. I had made examples of a fair number of Asturian dukes over the centuries, after all. What the Asturians chose to overlook was the fact that I’d also jerked a goodly number of Wacites and Mimbrates up short as well. The Asturians seemed to want to look upon me as an hereditary enemy who hovered in the shadows waiting for the chance to thwart all their schemes.
What ultimately happened in northern Arendia came about largely because Duke Moratham of Mimbre was in his mid-eighties, and was quite obviously senile. His so-called ‘advisors’ were untroubled by scruples, and, since the doddering old Moratham automatically approved everything they put before him, they were the actual rulers of Mimbre. Garteon III of Asturia saw his chance, and, to put it crudely, he began buying up Mimbrate nobles by the score.
I should have been paying more attention. A great deal of the suffering I’ve endured about what happened to Wacune derives in no small measure from the fact that it was at least partially my fault.