ristan’s head ached from the prior night’s drinking. Now that it was morning and he was sober, he remembered why he liked wine. It made him forget that he lived in the house of a coward and slept alone in a bed that he had once shared with his wife. Nearly a year had passed since her death, but when he remembered, it might as well have been yesterday. He hated his life. It was meaningless, vain, and showed no signs of improving. He rolled over with a groan of protest, turning his back to the servant that was trying to make him wake up.

“Sir, please, his lordship awaits your pleasure,” Conrad repeated. At least the servant had the decency not to empty the washstand ewer over him as his sister Isabeau did when she was frustrated with him.

It had been a long night. He vaguely remembered meeting Daniel Broinn and passing on the weapons he had scrounged from his father’s garrison, things he knew Lord de Minuit would not miss. The thought caused him to smile. It pleased him to imagine his father was about to give him a tongue-lashing for what the old man was too cowardly to do himself.

His temples pounded when he finally swung his legs over the edge of his bed and stumbled to his feet. Anger percolated through his mind at the look of foolish pity upon Conrad’s face. He waved the servant away with a curse when the man offered to steady him. To his further annoyance, Tristan realized that when his sister Isabeau had cajoled him home from the bar last night she must have had someone cleanse the blood and filth of brawling from him and change his clothes. Where was his sword and his coin purse?

“You’ve kept me waiting long enough!” boomed Lord de Minuit’s voice. He sensed the fear and dismay of the servants crawling in the old man’s wake. Tristan turned to face the door of his sumptuous bedroom as the stiff gray-haired figure hove into view like a battered war galleon.

“I am awake, Father,” Tristan pointed out.

“It is noon and we are receiving officials from the White Mantle,” the man rumbled angrily, “Your presence was specifically requested and you will be there.”

“Do they want us to lick their boots?” Tristan asked, annoyed that his father pandered to the White Mantle. They were thugs and bullies, uneducated curs and fanatics. He hated them and it annoyed him that his own father professed to be a royalist and yet bowed down to the whim of the White Mantle. It was hypocrisy and cowardice.

“They are here at Confessor Scarpia’s order,” Lord de Minuit said meaningfully. Tristan detected the faintest blossoming of fear within his father’s psyche. Unsettled by this, he withheld his angry retort. Among his Shining Blade friends, Scarpia was also known as the Scourge of the Chosen. Many were frightened by the mere mention of his name and now it appeared to be so about his own father.

Lord de Minuit gestured the servants away with a powerful sweep of his arm. They departed quickly, closing the door behind them and leaving him alone with his father’s grim figure.

“Set aside your feelings about what I have or have not done,” Andrew said grimly. Tristan met his father’s gaze noticing with a shock that he appeared haggard and worn, the lines around his brow and mouth deeper than he remembered his hair more silvery.

“Yes, Father.”

The old warrior looked away and strode toward the balcony, drawing the long red velvet curtains closed and sealing them in burgundy shadows. Tristan’s stomach knotted, his sensitive mind aware of the anxiety gnawing away at his father.

“These are dangerous times,” Andrew rumbled, his muscular figure tense as he paced toward the door and made sure it was closed, “Whatever else you think of me, you should know that my decisions take into consideration the welfare of all who dwell beneath this roof. I pray to the gods you have not brought calamity down upon our heads with your romantic notions of right and wrong.”

“Father… I…,” he hesitated, unable to look at the old man.

“You have drawn the eye of the Confessor,” Lord de Minuit nearly yelled, “Do you have any clue how dangerous this situation could be?

Tristan’s mouth was dry and his heart pounded in his breast. He nodded.

“I don’t think you do,” Andrew said coldly, “because if you did you would not drink yourself into oblivion and then risk the well-being of your own family by some foolish, willful act.”

Tristan stared at his fists balled upon his lap as he sat like a naughty child at the edge of his bed.

“Not a word out of you while the White Mantle are here, understand?” Lord de Minuit demanded, “I don’t know what you did, but I’m going to deny it and so are you. And you will not leave this house or drink another drop of wine until this blows over.”

“Yes, father.”

“And if this happens again, son or not, you are on your own. Do you hear me?”

Tristan swallowed and nodded.

“Get dressed. I want you downstairs before the Confessor’s men arrive at the stroke of one.”

Lord de Minuit slammed the bedroom door behind him as he departed. A moment later Conrad reappeared and set out a clean cotton blouse and a pair of black hose with silver piping. He laid a doublet beside it with silver and midnight blue embroidery of crescent moons indicating the de Minuit family crest.

“Milord,” Conrad prompted, gesturing toward the washstand where water steamed in the ewer, “Do you wish me to shave you?”

“Do you know what’s going on, Con?” he asked, staring listlessly at the doublet. He hated the court clothes, they made him feel exposed and defenseless. He suspected that was precisely what his father wanted him to feel. He would rather have had his specially crafted silks and leathers that he wore into combat.

“Weapons bearing the de Minuit crest were discovered in the possession of a known Shining Blade operative,” Conrad said quietly.

Tristan swallowed. Gods he had been an idiot. In his haste to deliver the weapons into Daniel’s possession, he had not checked to make sure none of them bore the mark of his household. But he had been at that reckless state of drunkenness, that moment when everything seemed right with the world and he was invincible, when it no longer mattered that his wife was dead and most everyone who had ever respected him now looked upon him with pity. He swore angrily at himself. No wonder Lord de Minuit had threatened to disown him.

“Conrad, I want you to promise me something.”

“Milord?”

“If anything happens to me, get my son and my sisters out of here. I don’t care how, just make sure they’re out of reach of the mantle.”

“Yes, Milord.”

“There’s a small embroidered pouch in the bottom of my wardrobe. It contains five platinum that I won while gambling last week. Use that if you must leave in haste.”

Conrad was pale, but he bowed obediently and stood aside, waiting. Tristan raged silently at himself as he dressed, his hands shaking. Daniel Broinn had told him that the White Mantle had a penchant for destroying entire villages at the slightest taint of insurrection. It would be nothing for them to take out a single family that was well known for its past service to the royal family -- the same royal family the White Mantle had usurped and driven out.

He said nothing as Conrad ensured his honey-colored hair was flawlessly tied back with a black ribbon at his nape and his face was clean-shaven and innocent. Did his father know he had stolen and redistributed those weapons? He dared not ask, not now. Conrad held open the door for him and he strode downstairs with the appearance of calm. His youngest sister Bella was still traveling in Cantha and he prayed she would stay away for as long as possible. However, his closest sister, Isabeau, was there with his toddler son, Micah, hiding behind the sumptuous billow of her pale embroidered skirt. Her golden hair was caught up in sprays of Luxon jade and silver and she seemed the perfect daughter of Lord Minuit, attentive and refined. She did not look at him as he stood at her left shoulder, but he felt the buzz of her mind.

“Brother, I hope what I have heard is a baseless lie. Please tell me you have not been a fool,” she said into his mind. He did not respond, blocking her now as he stared straight ahead, his hands clasped behind his back. The servants stood opposite them in two rows of three and his father and mother stood between them opposite the door awaiting the appointed arrival of their accusers.

The clap of boot heels resounded upon the stone steps to the manor house, signaling the arrival of a large delegation. Conrad strode to the door and held it aside, bowing deeply and revealing the double lines of warriors arrayed outside. The gilt and white finery of a priest in high standing blazed in the warm Krytan sunshine as the leader of the delegation stepped into the marble-embellished entry hall. A pair of masked Sycophants flanked the reedy figure of the Abbot as well as a pair of scarlet clad Inquisitors. The door closed, leaving the warriors to await them outside.

They had brought their own mesmers. Tristan swallowed and avoided meeting their masked gazes, clearing his mind and realizing that was why his father had not demanded to know the truth. Tristan could keep their prying minds at bay, but Lord de Minuit had no such talent.

“Before the all seeing gaze of the Unseen, let us be shriven of impurities and of clear purpose,” intoned the Abbot with a wheezy drone.

“May the wisdom of the Unseen be with you always,” Lord de Minuit replied on cue. Tristan clenched his jaws in revulsion and felt the cold stares of the Sycophants boring into him. The abbot raised a long-fingered hand to gesture one of the red robed inquistors forward. A sheathed sword was in the man’s hands bearing a familiar crescent moon symbol upon its cross-brace.

“Lord de Minuit, is the device that embellishes this weapon familiar to you?” asked the Abbot quietly. Tristan swallowed as the attention of the sycophants focused upon his father.

“Yes, it is my family crest. That is a weapon from my garrison.”

“Could you tell me how a weapon bearing your family crest came to be in the possession of a notorious member of the Shining Blade?”

“I could not.”

“I see,” replied the abbot coldly, glancing at one of sycophants. The man made a flat gesture as if to indicate that he could read nothing significant or damning, “Would you care to speculate?”

“Theft, most likely,” Tristan’s father said flatly.

“Do you often leave your weapons lying around where they are easily acquired by enemies of the state, Lord de Minuit? Do you believe there is no accountability for aiding the enemy even if done so negligently?”

“It will not happen again. I will take measures to ensure this.”

Silence for a moment. One of the sycophants nodded at the abbot but no words were exchanged.

“That is all for now,” the man said, turning toward the door. Tristan nearly sighed in relief but the man paused at the threshold as Conrad drew the door open and held it aside.

“Lord de Minuit, you should know that it is only a matter of time before Daniel Broinn reveals his accomplices. His Grace, the Confessor, is an able truth seeker. We will get to the bottom of this. I pray to the Unseen that you are indeed innocent.”

“I am confident that we have not sinned beneath the Eye of Janthir,” Andrew replied evenly, “I hope you will return as an honored guest when next we meet and I can show that this is an obedient and dutiful household.”

“Indeed,” replied the abbot, turning now to gaze upon Tristan, his rheumy eyes steady and knowing, “I hope that is true.”

The door closed and Tristan exhaled, his knees weak and his sister’s hand reaching out to steady him. Micah seemed to sense something was amiss and clung to his leg, crying. What had he done? Gods help them all, what had he done?