Chapter 24: That’s my brother
He re-entered the Great Hall on a shallow breath, the scent of ginger and mint a cool thread in the back of his throat, holding the ache of his bruised insides at bay. His right hand was wrapped in a thin strip of linen to hide the cut from the goblet, tucked discreetly against his leg. He moved with an exaggerated ease, a slight roll to his shoulders, a rueful half-smile already playing on his lips. Apology and youthful bluster, packaged just so.
The room’s attention was a palpable thing, heavy and hot on his skin. Eyes flicked away as he passed, then darted back. Whispers rustled behind hands. The centerpiece of smashed bottle and spilled wine was gone, the tablecloth hastily replaced. The minstrels had resumed a boisterous, less melancholic tune. Polite fiction was already being stitched over the raw tear in the evening’s fabric.
Kerr’s eyes swept the hall, not seeing faces but seeing alignments, positions, nervous ticks. Assessing the battlefield.
His gaze caught, sharpened. By the great hearth, where smoke curled up into the shadowed rafters, stood a small cluster of men. There was Ser Esmerelle, lord of Fringesreach—a wiry man with the permanent, tight-eyed look of a farmer counting clouds—deep in what looked like casual conversation with one of the castle’s own footmen, Lorne. Lorne was a quiet man, slightly built, tasked with running messages from the bailey. He stood with shoulders hunched, nodding too quickly at something Esmerelle was saying.
Kerr’s assessment took less than a heartbeat. A hard knot formed under his sternum, cold and certain.
A heavy, familiar hand clapped him on the shoulder, the force nearly a shove, but it steadied him.
“There he is!” Fergus’s voice boomed, carrying the right note of brotherly mockery. “Decided to rejoin the land of the living? Must have been some vintage, little brother, if it made you try and redecorate the floor.”
Kerr turned, the rueful smile firmly in place, meeting his brother’s eyes. They were laughing, crinkled at the corners, but beneath that surface glimmered something flat and hard as river rock.
“Must have sat too heavy,” Kerr said, his voice pitched for nearby ears. “Tasted bitter at the end.”
Fergus leaned in, pulling Kerr into a conspiratorial huddle as if to share a joke. His breath was warm against Kerr’s ear. The mirth was gone from his face now, stripped away completely. His expression was stripped, pale, deadly.
“Who?”
One word. Grated out like stone on stone.
Kerr didn’t speak. He let his gaze, steady and deliberate, flick once more towards the hearth. Towards Lorne and Ser Esmerelle. Then back to Fergus.
Fergus followed his brother’s look. His own eyes narrowed for an imperceptible second. Nothing in his posture changed, yet the air around him seemed to condense, turn sharp. He clapped Kerr on the back again, loudly. “Next time, stick to ale!”
He stepped away, his laughter echoing, and began a casual, ambling circuit of the hall. He stopped to exchange a meaningless pleasantry with a visiting knight, accepted a goblet of wine from a passing servant with a nod of thanks, smiled absently at a courtier. His path was a wide, meandering arc that appeared aimless, yet brought him, inevitably, towards the great hearth.
He never looked directly at Lorne.
Fergus’s situational awareness was a practiced, predatory thing. He seemed to absorb the entire room—the placement of every chair, the trajectory of every servant, the drift of every cluster of guests—without appearing to notice anything at all. His body flowed through the throng without brushing a single shoulder, the shearling-trimmed leather of his jerkin moving like a shadow.
He arrived at Lorne’s side just as the footman was giving Ser Esmerelle a small, deferential bow, preparing to slip away.
“There you are, Lorne,” Fergus said, his voice pleasant, conversational. His hand closed around the man’s upper arm, not hard, but like a carriage clamp sliding shut. It was the kind of grip used to steady a comrade, or detain a criminal. “Been looking for you.”
Lorne flinched. A sheen of sweat instantly glossed his pale forehead, gleaming in the firelight. His eyes widened, darting towards Ser Esmerelle, who had taken a polite step back, his own expression tightening with vague annoyance.
“Milord Fergus? I… I have my rounds, milord, the eastern bailey gate needs the watch report…”
“It can wait,” Fergus said, his smile still in place, easy and broad. “Something’s come up. An irregularity. Needs a quick chat. Won’t take long.” He was already turning, his grip steering Lorne bodily away from the hearth, the guests, the light.
“But milord, I…”
“A productive conversation,” Fergus said, his tone dropping a single, meaningful octave. The friendliness evaporated, leaving only iron certainty. He propelled the man forward, his pace deceptively brisk. Lorne stumbled once, trying to keep up, his mouth opening and closing like a stranded fish. Ser Esmerelle watched them go, a faint frown on his face, before turning back to the fire with a dismissive shrug.
Fergus led him not to the barracks or the steward’s office, but into the castle’s old undercroft, a low-ceilinged maze of storage alcoves forgotten behind the newer wine cellars. The air was thick with the smell of damp stone, moldering grain sacks, and the ghost of old vinegar. It was utterly soundproofed by layers of earth and rock. The only light came from Fergus’s single candle, snatched from a sconce in the passage above. It threw wild, leaping shadows on the rough-hewn walls.
He shoved Lorne against a cold stone pillar. The man whimpered.
“I didn’t… I swear, milord, I don’t know what…”
Fergus set the candle on a broken barrelhead. The flame guttered. He moved with no wind-up, no theatrical windmill swing. It was a tight, efficient pivot of his torso, his left fist driving up and in, aimed not at the face, but at the soft shelf of the ribs just below the man’s heart. The impact was a muffled, wet thump, like a mallet striking a side of beef.
Lorne’s eyes bulged. All the air left his body in a silent, agonized whoosh. He slid down the pillar, clutching his side, mouth working soundlessly. A high, ragged wheeze finally broke from him. His face turned a sickly grey-green in the candlelight.
Fergus crouched. He didn't yell. His voice was low, almost conversational, as if discussing crop yields. He drew a long, wicked hunting knife from his belt. The steel was polished, purposeful. He held it up, letting the candlelight run liquid along its edge.
“Lorne. Listen to me.” He waited until the man’s teary, terrified eyes focused on the blade. “The young lord is sick. Poisoned wine. Bitter.Metallic. Tastes like almonds and blood.” He described it precisely, watching the man’s reactions. “You were seen in conversation with Ser Esmerelle, a man who holds a grievance over withheld troops. You serve the wine. The arithmetic is very simple, Lorne. The answer is written on your face.”
“He… he paid me!” Lorne gasped, each word a sharp, pained effort. Tears streamed down his face. “Just… just to ensure Lord Kerr got that particular bottle! From the back of the cellar! He said it was a prank! A… a strong vintage to… to embarrass him after the troop dispute! I didn’t know!”
Fergus nodded slowly, as if confirming a mildly interesting fact. “Which one? There were many bottles.”
“The… the one with the green wax seal. With the… the raven imprint. He gave it to me this morning. Told me to substitute it for the one on the high table service.” The words tumbled out, pushed by terror and the blinding pain in his ribs. “I swear on my mother’s grave, I thought it was just strong wine! To make him… make him vomit in front of everyone! Humiliate him!”
Fergus brought the flat of the knife blade up, cold and hard, and pressed it against the pulse fluttering wildly in Lorne’s throat.Not cutting. Not yet. Just applying pressure. The chill of the steel made the man freeze.
“Where is Esmerelle now?”
“In… in the hall! He… he said he’d watch. To see the… the result.”
Fergus’s eyes, in the shuddering light, were utterly devoid of mercy. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “If you are lying, Lorne, by even a single detail, your death will not be quick. It will not be in a dungeon. It will be here, in the dark, and I will take my time. Do you understand the gravity of the ledger now?”
Lorne nodded frantically, the movement making the knife press harder.“Truth! It’s the truth! Green wax! Raven!”
Fergus held the blade there for three more heartbeats, reading the absolute, caved-in honesty in the man’s face. He saw no deeper conspiracy, no hidden master. Just a weak, greedy man and a petty, vindictive lord with access to something more sinister than he’d let on.
Slowly, he withdrew the knife. He stood up, looking down at the crumpled, sobbing figure. The business-like detachment settled back over him. “Three broken ribs,” he said calmly. “You fell down the cellar stairs while fetching ale. You will be tended to. You will never speak of this. You will leave Highever by dawn tomorrow, with a month’s wages and a warning that if you ever breathe a word, to anyone, I will find you. The conversation is over.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He blew out the candle, plunging the undercroft into absolute blackness, leaving Lorne alone in the dark with his pain and his fate.
Fergus emerged into the dim torchlight of the lower corridor, slipping the long knife back into its sheath. He smoothed the front of his jerkin, ran a hand through his hair, and let out a long, controlled breath. The panther’s focus was gone, replaced by the grim resolve of a general. He had a name.
He turned and strode back towards the light and noise of the hall, his mind already moving past the weak tool to the hand that had wielded it. Ser Esmerelle of Fringesreach had just bought himself a different kind of conversation.
Fergus found Kerr by a sideboard, pretending to admire an ornate fruit arrangement. He sidled up close, the cloying scent of sugared plums filling the space between them. "Lorne," he murmured, his lips barely moving. "Paid to switch the bottle. A green wax seal with a raven."
Kerr’s fingers, wrapped around a tankard of small ale, tightened. The knuckles turned white. "From the back larder," he whispered back, a new piece clicking into place. "The foreign one. The one you dared me to drink from after we stole Father’s sextant."
Fergus snorted softly, recalling that long-ago afternoon. "And you only took one sip before you spat it across the cobbles and called me a bastard."
"That metallic, almond rot." Kerr’s eyes were fixed on nothing. The memory brought the taste flooding back, crystalline and awful. "It was seared into my tongue for a week. I could smell it in the back of my throat the moment it hit the cup tonight." He took a slow sip of the ale, washing the phantom taste away. "Elspeth made me drink charcoal and mustard and worse. Made me get rid of it.Clean."
Fergus let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. A genuine flicker of humor in the grimness. "You and your stomach of iron. You always did believe me when I said something was dangerous."
"She saw the change in me before I did. Knew exactly what to do."
"A godsend, that woman." Fergus’s gaze traveled across the hall, finding Elspeth directing the cleanup with quiet authority. "If I were ten years older... or a few years sooner," he mused, a fond, wistful grin spreading across his face. He winked at Kerr. "Probably saved us both a great deal of trouble."
Kerr drove a playful fist into his brother’s shoulder. It was like hitting a sack of packed sand. "She's spoken for," he said, with mock seriousness. "Hands off."
"Always were the jealous one," Fergus shot back, rubbing his arm. The light in his eyes dimmed to business."And yes. I still do believe you.Always have." He jerked his chin towards the hearth where Ser Esmerelle stood, now watching the dice game among some knights. "I can have him detained. Now. Quietly. You've more than enough cause."
Kerr followed his brother's gaze. The embers of rage, banked but not dead, glowed a little hotter in his gut. He saw the wiry lord's profile, the smug set of his jaw as he placed a bet. A slow, deliberate breath filled Kerr's lungs, laced with the scent of ginger from the tea Elspeth had brewed. The ache inside was subsiding, replaced by a cold, clear sense of purpose.
"Why would I want that?" Kerr asked, his voice dropping to a low hum. "If you lock him up, I don't get to fight him in the tourney tomorrow."
A genuine, startled laugh burst from Fergus, quickly smothered. He looked at his younger brother with a blend of shock and profound approval. The boy had grown up. "You can barely stand straight, you stubborn arse. He just tried to kill you."
"He tried to make a fool of me with poison.Failed." Kerr's jaw set. "It didn't end me, brother. It just pissed me off."
Fergus studied him. He saw the lingering pallor, the subtle sheen of sweat, but also the unshakable light burning in Kerr's eyes. The light of a Cousland with a score to settle.
Fergus sighed, the sound a mix of exasperation and capitulation. "Alright. I'll ask you once, at dawn, before the lists are drawn. If you still can't hold down water, the answer will be no. And you will accept it."
"I would. But that won’t happen." Kerr's expression softened for a fleeting second, grateful. "In a straight up fight, Fergus… with blades or fists… there's not a man born of any woman who can stand against me. Not now."
Fergus clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder. His grip was firm, grounding, imparting a silent reserve of strength. "Alright then." His gaze found Elspeth again, issuing commands by the servants’ door. He began to steer Kerr gently through the thinning crowd towards her. His demeanor shifted utterly, the lethality of minutes before dissolving into the charming, slightly oblivious elder heir.
"Magistress Elspeth," he called, his voice ringing with performative concern. The lords and ladies nearby glanced over at the commotion.
Elspeth turned, wiping her hands on her apron, her expression politely blank. "Milord Fergus?"
"Our patient here." Fergus gave Kerr an affectionate shake. "He's had a bit of an evening, as I'm sure you witnessed. Hasn't quite got his land legs back yet." He offered her a confiding, conspiratorial smile. "With the enormous favor to all of us, would you see him safely to his chambers? Ensure he's in a fit state for that silly tourney business tomorrow? Perhaps"—he leaned in slightly, the picture of a concerned brother making a simple request—"stay the night if you think it needful? His mother would sleep easier, I'm sure."
The act was flawless. A doting brother, a bit too dense to grasp darker realities, making an entirely appropriate and slightly trivial request of a trusted senior servant.
Elspeth’s eyes flickered for only an instant between the two men. She gave a shallow, respectful curtsy. "Of course, milord. It’s well within my duties."
"Excellent!" Fergus beamed. He clapped Kerr on the back once more. "Get some proper rest, you lout. No more swilling mystery bottles." With that, he turned away and ambled back into the heart of the hall, making a straight line for his wife, Oriana.
She met him with a whispered question, her brows drawn. Eleanor and Bryce Cousland, seated at the high table, were watching their eldest son's swift progress through the crowd with open curiosity. Fergus reached Oriana, gave her hand a squeeze, and glanced across the hall at his parents.
Their gazes held questions, etched with the lines of a lifetime of rule.
He gave a single, slight shake of his head, a soft, dismissive exhale. The picture of a man lightly shrugging off a minor annoyance—Nothing to worry about, just some youthful overindulgence. Eleanor’s shoulders relaxed a fraction; Bryce’s wary expression softened into familiar, paternal resignation.
Fergus slipped his arm around Oriana's waist, leaning in to listen to some minor complaint she had about Oren’s new tutor. He nodded, contributing inane comments about lineage and poetry.
In his heart, loyalty stacked up in a silent, immutable hierarchy: above mother, father, wife, the Maker, or country, a singular truth. Above all else, his loyalty was to his brother.