Chapter 9 - Introductions - Erik Morsin

 A bargain was struck.
Erik Morsin, now a boy of great potential and darker legacy,
Was engaged to Lady Alexandria Renard,
A noble of wide lineage and dangerous charm.
With this bond,
The Morsins tied themselves to the very throne they had once defied.

The Saga of Bjorn, Verse 53

Erik pulled his bow across the strings of the violin, the smooth notes of his scale releasing stress and tension that had been building up all week.

This hour was his fortress. If Erik could do one thing, if he could change his fate, he would be a musician, not the noble heir to one of the most powerful and hated houses of Logres. His robe’s sleeves were rolled up, the mage lights were bright, and enchantments kept the music sealed in the stone room. There was no need to subject the entirety of Dublin Castle to Erik’s practice. He had a new composition by John Williams imported from the mundane world, through one of the Arches. Dublin itself had two, and Erik fondly remembered the one trip he’d taken. The odds of another family trying to arrange an ‘accident’, or simply murdering one of the hated Morsins made it a one-off occasion.

Erik would finally leave the Emerald Isle for the first time when he went to Camelot.

A knock on the door interrupted his warm up, and hot rage burned through Erik’s veins. His hand slipped, a discordant screech kept confined entirely in the room.

Erik breathed in, breathed out. He wasn’t old enough to glamour his face, and regardless that would be a terrible habit in the deadly world of politics and magic. Smile number six, ‘I’m smiling but this better be good’ on. Another lesson, another facet of life forever tainted.

Ronan, first steward of the Morsins, was at the door. He was idly twirling his arcane focus, the core of a magical creature reformed to a quill. He straightened up and immediately switched to a deferential face. Ronan's lips quirked - his tutor had noticed the rapid change of expression, and approved. Everything was a lesson, everything was a test. Doubly so inside the castle.

“His Grace has returned. Your presence is recommended.” Ronan said. 

Erik let out a frustrated sigh, but didn’t bother arguing or trying to get back to practice. ‘Recommended’ was the same as needing ‘a damn good reason not to’, and given what Duke Morsin thought of playing music, well.

Erik thought lightning-fast.

What was the question to ask, what was the right approach to take here? How to best phrase the question?

“Should I change?” He asked, a half dozen different questions layered inside. How long until his father arrived? What was the mood? How formal was the occasion? Was it best to fade into the crowd or stand out? Did he need to wear the old furs of his father’s culture, or the new robes of his mother and home? It also indicated deference towards his tutor and respect for the man’s advice, with a modest amount of humility. 

That was his life. Every word measured, every movement calculated. Ever since Erik was born he’d been wrapped up in rules, chained by obligation. Yes, he was free to ignore his duties and obligations, free to skive off his lessons and training, but the heavy imposition of duty and expectations only gave him one true decision.

Was the illusion of choice still a choice?

Camelot couldn’t come quickly enough.

Ronan's eyes glanced over Erik’s robes, and he flicked his quill, silently casting a charm. Erik’s rolled up sleeves snapped into position, the crinkles in the robe straightened out, Erik’s face was magically scrubbed to within an inch of its life and his hair flopped around into a semblance of order. It was tameable, but it was as difficult to control as the ocean waves. There was no way Erik was going to put enough grease in his hair to make it shine, unlike some other heirs.

“You’re ready.” He said. “Pack up and return to the grand hallway as quickly as you are able.”

Erik nodded in understanding, and with a swish of his robes, Ronan moved on. Erik went back into the music room, and punched the wall.

“Odin blast it all.” He swore, both at the situation and his smarting hand. He tenderly packed away his selkie-strand bow as well as his anger. 

“Thank you for cooperating today.” Erik whispered lovingly to the sheet music, before packing it away with the rest. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to play you the way you deserved.”

Everyone claimed that sheet music didn’t listen and had no magic of its own, that Erik’s folio would stay put. 

How did anyone who’d ever heard music believe it didn’t have magic? How could anyone hear a thousand thrumming notes and not be moved, be stirred to action? How could anyone listen to a mournful dirge and not feel sad?

Music was magic, if not the kind that everyone else was casting with wands.

Plus, it was great practice to be nice to books.

Erik hurried through the hallways at a dignified pace, smile #1 - happy, unencumbered, genuine - on and greeting everyone he passed.

“Working hard Murphy, keep it up!” He praised one of the new young wixen running on some errand or another. 

“Heir Morsin! Thank you!” He looked torn between formally greeting Erik, and continuing on with his errands. The young lord shooed him along.

“Get going, don’t let me keep you.”

“Thank you sir, errr, lord, uh, your grace?” He stumbled through. Erik grinned #2 - reassuring, no problems - at him, checking around quickly. Only people he liked well enough were around, excellent.

“Heir Morsin when someone with a stick up their arse is around, otherwise just Erik is fine.” Erik told the kid with a wink. He grinned cheekily back.

“Alright, see you later just Erik.” He took off at a dead sprint, laughing like a hyena. Erik wasn’t looking forward to the day where he had to be the one with the stick up his arse.

Erik continued walking along as quickly as he could. 

“How do you remember everyone’s name?” Chloe, one of the maids, asked Erik. She waved her wand down the hallway. 

“Twabat.” She chanted, the word laced with magic.

The place was already clean, but with the one spell the entire hallway took on a new, fresher sheen. The barely-visible dust was cleared off, the brass holders shone, the portraits looked like an expert had adjusted them.

“Your familiar built a skull throne in the main entry hall. You’re impossible to forget.” Erik flattered the woman. She flapped a hand at him.

It wasn’t entirely true. Chloe was barely a third circle witch, but was an excellent example of application of existing talents, instead of an endless pursuit of raw power. She was excellent with summoning and contracts, never overextending herself, only carefully raising more when she could handle it. Slow and steady had resulted in her having an entire legion of rat-like imps at her command. Mostly they cleaned the smaller corners of the castle, but the anti-vermin squads were adorable. Mice on two legs, with little spears and shield with the Morsin sigil of a white hart on it? Rats that did deadly battle with the true rodents that tried to infest the castle, then threw their own tiny parties over the burning bodies of their conquests?

Everybody in Castle Dublin knew Chloe’s mice.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, now don’t let me hold you up!”

He’d kept walking the entire time, knowing that he needed to beat his father to the great hall.

“I won’t!” He flashed smile #1, happy that he could keep using it without a mask. “O’Brian! Excellent duel last week! You were robbed, you should’ve won it.”

The wizard was heading in the same direction Erik was.

“Ah, them’s the breaks.” He said. “Mimics a real fight all too well. It’s not just about being the better mage, luck plays a large role in these things.”

“Too true.” Erik agreed.

He slipped into the crowded grand hallway, and tried not to stare at Nyssara. The older witch was dressed in clinging red robes, leaving her collarbones scandalously exposed. People muttered about it, but nobody dared say a word to the thaumaturge’s face. Or the duke’s. Or Lars. Or anyone else with influence.

Erik spotted his friends and slipped in between them, taking his position at the front. He waved to Aoife, his sister, who was holding a basket of herbs. Erik could identify the queen anne’s lace, but nothing else.

“Alright everyone, you know the drill. Form up around Sora.” Erik said. Caleb snorted as he took his spot on the right, and Loren rolled his eyes as he stepped to Erik’s left. The three of them fairly effectively hid Sora from view, but not the slightest hint of logic. No skills were needed to track the girl’s path from the side entrance to her place here. Kelly was going to kill Sora, for real this time. 

The half-Korean girl shrugged.

“We were playing when the news came in, didn’t have time to clean up. Besides -”

Sora’s words were interrupted by the grand doors slamming open. Instant silence descended on the hall, and even Nyssara stood up at attention.

 A blood-soaked Duke Bjorn Morsin strode in, carrying a severed dragon’s head.