HOUSE CRANMER was one of the oldest and wealthiest houses in all of Syveria. A lineage that dated back to the ages before the birth of Eracuse. It had houses in the capital, estates in the western villages, and a sturdy Keep by the White lake.
It singlehandedly managed the business of mining the blazon glory of the Syverian treasure: sapphire glass. The business had been managed by the house for centuries and none better executed the deal. House Cranmer made its profits from selling off the pale crystals to foreigners sailed in from the emerald sea. The Crown also received a small coffer from the wealth gained.
House Cranmer had being friends with the crown from before the Night wars. It was even rumored that the first Cranmer child had been a bastard of House Pierran, the Royal house. The Lord of the House, Geralt Cranmer was an aging speckle of a man with feeble knees and three wives. His mistresses were countless. So were his bastards.
He had four children—all girl children, and many a man came to ask for their hand. Noblemen of great houses, wealthy merchants from lands beyond the emerald sea, and Officers of the syverian army. Apart from their startling beauty which they only had their mothers to thank for, the Cranmer name alone brought men from every corner of the realm. The only thing Lord Geralt Cranmer loved more than his money were his daughters.
A fine carriage traversed the Cranmer estate, followed closely by two kingsguards on horses. As the carriage rumbled across, the fine golden-eyed eagle of the Pierran royal crest shone brightly in the light of the scarlet sun.
The Cranmer estate rose beautifully before them like a god's lair, and the blue cloaks astride the horses gulped it in with roving ambitious eyes. The Cranmer estate was a manor robed in polished granite, glinting sapphire-glass, and the wood of Cypress. A grand Keep by the White lake.
The carriage moved round the manor, circling the house until it halted at the back entrance. Two armored houseguards in bronze chain mails immediately walked across from the gates to the carriage. The door was pushed open and a long arm peeked out from the wide space. A single golden ring rested on its middle finger. The royal crest graven onto it clearly shone in the evening light.
Arlon Pierran slowly climbed off the carriage. The houseguards immediately bowed their heads before him. His golden robe breezed with the wind as he looked behind him. The crystal water of the White lake met with his wide eyes. The springs sloshed and spun, waves like the hard bark of a peeled pine.
Arlon had been at the Cranmer residence countless times; for diplomatic meetings, banquets, balls, name it, but the sheer beauty of it's natural environment never ceased to pike his interest. The manor rested in a dwelling that was so different from the busy chaos of Calipsos where the Ivory castle was. Arlon smiled at the way the sun hit the lake in an enchanting spectacle of yellow. Geralt might be an old man but he did not have the gray hairs for nothing. He had built his house far away from the frantic noise of the capital where he could enjoy his final years.
A colder breeze blew into Arlon's nose and he softly closed his eyes, waiting for the rush to whisper into his ears. After a while, he opened his eyes once more and walked in. The two blue cloaks stood at the entrance while the houseguards followed Arlon in.
"Your Majesty!" A loud voice boomed at his entrance. It was a grating sound, like the loud scratching of grinding stones.
Arlon immediately opened his arms wide and the scrawny form of Geralt moved in for a friendly embrace. His shoulders were bony and angular. Arlon noticed the old man smelled nice. His wives were taking good care of him. Gold was good, and Lord Cranmer possessed a great deal of it.
The Innards of the Cranmer Keep was more elegant than a merchant's tent. Everywhere Arlon turned, there seemed to be a spot of gold. Gilden drapes hung off the high walls with the Cranmer family crest emblazoned on the cream tapestry: the proud antlers of an Elk. Above his head, a hundred tears of sapphire-glass sparkled like lit candles. A single drop was was worth a small coffer and could put food on a farmer's table for an entire moon. Yet here it was, a simple ornament in a lord's home.
All these injustice Arlon noticed but he could say nothing. Afterall, Geralt kept also his secret. A bigger secret.
"Please, my king," Geralt said to Arlon. "This way."
As Arlon moved with Geralt, the houseguards following in close quarters, he noticed Geralt's youngest daughter, Aleah. She stood atop the stairs, staring at him with interested eyes. A small smile curved her lips. The man with her father was the King. If his golden looks weren't already appealing to her eyes, his name was, along with the kingdom that came with it. Arlon didn't return her smile of course. He had eyes only for her mother who stood beside her, quietly avoiding his eyes directed up at her.
Rebelle Cranmer was Geralt's youngest wife, mother to Aleah, and a Mithosian beauty. Her skin glistened the polished brown of her people, and her eyes shone like the sands of their Isles. Arlon couldn't look away, yet he had to.
With a heavy heart, he turned his head away from the stairs. Lady Rebelle Cranmer was his secret. And he had to keep it that way. She was certainly not the Queen and no one knew about his affairs with her, not even her husband.
The only secret Geralt knew about was hidden away in the underground stone chamber of the Keep. They were headed directly for it. Geralt was his closest friend: the Lord of the White Keep, so named after its proximity to the White lake, and Arlon could not bear to break his heart. As king, Arlon kept a lot of secrets.
His empire's secrets.
The royal family's secrets.
Even Latchlon had secrets too.
The burden was overwhelming and Arlon didn't see why he couldn't keep a few of his too. He loved Geralt like a father but in truth, the man was old. Rebelle didn't deserve to be locked away like an ornament in a hidden fortress.
"Wait for us!" Geralt's loud voice boomed. It echoed off the walls like a craftsman's anvil and Arlon is pulled out of his thoughts.
The houseguards immediately stopped at his order. The two officers turned around, facing away and standing still as statues.
Together, Geralt Cranmer and Arlon Pierran walked alone down smooth granite steps to a chamber underneath the Keep. With each descending step, the light streaming in grew dimmer until it was but a flicker the length of a finger. Geralt felt along the walls in the darkness. His hands closed around a solid object and he grabbed it.
A loud scratch echoed into the stillness of the underground chamber and a few breaths later, a red flame glowed atop the torch in his hands.
He lit another, handing it over to Arlon. Together, both men walked around a cave of smooth stones, the orange flames casting their shadows on the round stone walls. A faint sound of dripping water was heard in the distance but both men walked on. Suddenly, Geralt stopped. He lifted his free hand up in warning and Arlon stopped also.
He lifted the arm holding the torch up into the air and the orange light casted on a young man chained to the smooth stone of the chamber. His arms were held up by heavy rusted manacles but his feet were free, and they hung lazily on the mouldy floor of the chamber. His eyes were closed and he was naked, save for the white loincloth around his hips.
The man was young, not more than twenty winters.
As both men looked upon him in the darkness of the stone chamber, their eyes lit in wonder, still stunned at the lad's beauty.
Even in the flickering torch fires, the man's physique showed a beauty no mortal could hope to have. His closed eyes nested lashes silver and curved. His lips were pink like the roses that sprung early in summer, and his face was pale and soft as the winter's frost.
The chained beauty was Arlon's secret. It was Geralt's secret too. The secret both noble houses shared.
The boy before them was the might of the Otherworld.
A blood child; chained like a prisoner in their underground dungeon. It was clear from his hair the color of snow that the boy was a child of the North. A son of Valkalon.
"Is he still alive?" Arlon asked of Geralt.
"He should be," Geralt replied, "....he has survived this filthy place for twenty summers. Surely he can survive more."
Arlon was offended by Geralt's mocking tone. To Lord Cranmer, the boy was a poor fucker, like all the other bastards freezing their arses up North. But to Arlon, the boy was also a person, regardless of his nativity, unnatural beauty or strength.
"Marsil?" Arlon whispered to the boy. He hated that they had to keep him chained but Geralt was rigid on the rule.
Slowly, the boy's eyes fluttered open. Then closed up again before he could see anything. Arlon growled deep in his throat, fury lighting his blue eyes.
"Geralt, for fucks sake! When last did you feed him?"
Geralt sent him a cold angry stare.
"Is it my fault the poor fucker drinks blood?"
"You have to feed him. He needs it to survive?"
"Fuck you!" Geralt growled. "My knees are weak. I'm an old man." He met Arlon's fiery eyes and immediately lowered his head in silent apology. Arlon was still the King.
Arlon turned away from Geralt, looking back to the boy.
"Marsil?" He repeated. The young man's eyes slowly opened again. This time he managed to keep them open. Geralt shifted back an inch. The boy's eyes were colorless. Lifeless, like a corpse's. His eyes seemed to stare at nothing yet Arlon couldn't love him more.
"Father?" The moon-eyed prisoner whispered.
"Yes. I'm here." Arlon instantly replied.
He immediately lowered the torch to a nearby holdfast and moved to get some blood for his chained vampire son.