Chapter 6 — The Patriarch’s Pendant

Chapter 6: Chapter 6 — The Patriarch’s Pendant

Chapter 6 — The Patriarch’s Pendant

Christopher returned from the eastern field near sunset, mud on his boots, dust on his coat, and Bennet Cole’s inventory tucked beneath one arm, its numbers having stopped meaning anything after the third page. Before he reached his room, an old servant stepped out of the passage beside the family chapel.

"The Viscount wishes to see you in his study."

"Does he want to see me now?"

"He said before supper."

Christopher handed the inventory to the servant. "Take this to my room and keep it safe. Bennet will want it again tonight." Osbert’s study occupied the western corner of the keep, and Christopher had been there only twice since waking in this body—neither visit had made him comfortable, for the room held too many memories that were not his. The shelves, the faded carpet, and the high-backed chair near the cold fireplace all belonged to scenes from another boy’s childhood.

The guard outside opened the door without announcing him. Osbert stood beside the window. "Close it." Christopher obeyed; the curtains had already been drawn, and only one lamp burned on the desk, though the last daylight still showed around the edges of the cloth. A sword lay across the dark wood, and Christopher recognized it before the borrowed memories could supply the answer: his father’s sword. The scabbard was black leather worn pale near the throat, its silver fittings scratched where someone had cleaned away the mud and blood without polishing out the damage.

Beside it sat a small iron-bound coffer. Osbert moved behind the desk. "How bad is the expedition?"

"It will be difficult, Grandfather. We have farmers, but we still need a mason, a smith, a miller, and several other craftsmen."

"You need farmers."

"You have carpenters."

"Three families, Grandfather."

"Then Hugh was more generous than I expected."

Christopher lowered his head. "Yes, Grandfather." Osbert tapped the coffer, and the coins inside shifted with a heavy sound.

"This belonged to Edmund. It is yours, not part of the money House Drake gave the expedition."

Christopher eyed the box. "May I ask how much?"

"Enough to hire the craftsmen your uncles neglected to provide. Not enough to rebuild a fortress."

"I understand, Grandfather."

Osbert pushed a small key across the desk. Christopher picked it up but left the coffer where it was. "Why wasn’t this included with Father’s estate?"

"Because your father left instructions."

"Father left the money for me?"

"For his heir."

The distinction was small and unpleasant. Edmund had written the instruction before marching north, expecting to return and expecting Christopher to inherit years later, after he had learned how to manage land and men properly. Instead, his son stood in Osbert’s study wearing the dead boy’s face.

"Does anyone else know about the money, Grandfather?" Christopher asked.

"My steward knows Edmund maintained a private account, though he does not know what remained in it. I emptied it before Hugh began examining the war expenses."

"Hugh is helping settle the accounts of the dead, which gives him reason to ask questions. It does not give him the right to every answer."

Christopher placed the key on top of the coffer.

"Uncle Hugh may say you hid House money from him."

"Then you will show him Edmund’s instructions."

Osbert removed a folded document from beneath the sword, Edmund’s seal pressed into dark green wax at the bottom; the short page left the money to Edmund’s son.

"Keep that with the account papers," Osbert said. "The gold is yours. Spend it on Dragonwatch if you wish, but do not mix it with House Drake’s money."

"Does the difference matter if both are used for Dragonwatch?"

"It will when someone asks who owns what you build."

Christopher considered the coffer again. The answer sounded less like advice about money than a warning about his uncles.

"The masons and smiths?" he asked.

"Pay their hiring costs from the expedition fund where possible. Use your father’s gold for what the House refuses to provide, and have Bennet record every coin."

"Yes, Grandfather."

Christopher folded Edmund’s instructions and placed them inside his coat.

"Do not announce in Griffin City that a young lord traveling north has inherited a chest of gold."

"I won’t, Grandfather."

Osbert rested his hand on the sword. "This was also his." Christopher approached the desk; the weapon was heavier than the one he normally carried, and when he closed his hand around the grip, a memory came without warning. Edmund stood in the practice yard, correcting Christopher’s feet with the toe of his boot, until the wooden sword slipped from the boy’s hand. Edmund laughed, picked it up, and made him begin again. Christopher saw the scene clearly, understanding the embarrassment and stubbornness the boy had felt, but those emotions remained behind glass.

His own grief was different: he thought of another father in another world, a man who had never held a sword, who complained about traffic, and who called whenever Christopher stayed too late at the university library. Christopher tightened his hold on the scabbard.

"Take it," Osbert said.

"Thank you, Grandfather."

Christopher lifted the sword from the desk and placed it beside the coffer. Osbert opened the lowest drawer and removed something wrapped in plain gray cloth, unfolding it slowly to reveal a dark silver chain and an old pendant, its metal blackened with age. A worn shape covered its face: wings folded around something long and narrow, a sword, perhaps, or a tower. Christopher leaned closer.

"The patriarch’s pendant," Osbert said.

Christopher looked up. "It disappeared in the war."

"That’s what I told your uncles."

The room seemed quieter after that, and Osbert placed the pendant in Christopher’s palm and folded his fingers over it.

"They must continue believing it."

Christopher glanced at the closed door. "Why?"

"Because it belongs to the direct line. Because Edmund carried it. And because there are objects a family survives by hiding from itself."

"What does it do?"

"Nothing that I know."

Christopher turned the pendant over; the back was smooth except for several shallow lines near its edge.

"Then why lie about it?"

Osbert sat down and rubbed the deep crease between his brows.

"Do you remember the old story of Dragonwatch?"

Christopher searched the memories. There were several versions—one a nurse had told beside his bed, another Edmund had told during a winter storm, leaving out the parts that frightened children.

"Some of it, Grandfather."

"Tell me."

"Dragon Knights lived there before the kingdoms existed. They guarded the north. Then they fought something and never came back."

"A child’s version."

"That’s all I remember."

"The oldest family account calls Dragonwatch a fortress-city," he said. "Not a ruin at the edge of the world. Knights gathered there with dragons. The valleys beyond it were green then, or so the story claims."

Christopher thought of the northern maps: snow, rock, and land abandoned to orcs.

"What changed, Grandfather?"

"The story does not agree with itself. In one version, an enemy came from beyond the sky. In another, the enemy rose from beneath the earth. Priests later called them demons; scholars called the entire account an invention."

"And House Drake?"

"Our first patriarch supposedly served at Dragonwatch. When the final battle was lost, he carried the pendant south."

"You don’t believe the account?"

"The account is older than Varenne. Half the pages are missing, and the surviving copies were made centuries after the events they describe."

Christopher studied the worn mark again.

"What happened to the dragons?"

"They vanished."

"Every dragon vanished?"

"According to the story."

"Dragons don’t simply vanish."

"That’s why it is a story."

Osbert leaned back in his chair.

"Some say they died with their riders; some say they fled the Mortal Plane. One account claims the last of the Dragon Knights hid them before marching to the final battle."

Christopher’s thumb stopped against the edge of the pendant.

"Does the account say where they were hidden?"

"It does not say."

Osbert had answered before Christopher even finished looking up, and Christopher turned the pendant over again and let the matter rest.

"Do you believe any of this, Grandfather?" he asked.

"I believe Dragonwatch is real. I believe this pendant passed from one head of our family to the next. Beyond that, belief has little value."

Osbert pointed toward the pendant.

"Edmund wore it beneath his armor. He returned it to me before marching north."

"Why did Father return it before leaving?"

"He said the patriarch’s pendant should not be carried into another northern grave."

Christopher lowered his eyes; Hugh and Ranulf would ask questions if they learned Osbert still possessed it.

"Do not wear it openly," Osbert said. "Do not mention it to Godfrey. Do not take it out to satisfy idle curiosity."

Christopher slipped the chain into an inner pocket, the metal cold through his shirt.

"I will keep it hidden, Grandfather."

"I am sending you beyond Northgate with two Bronze Knights, twelve apprentices, fifty families, and walls that may no longer stand. Trust is the least expensive thing I am giving you."

"Yes, Grandfather."

Osbert rose, walked around the desk, and placed one hand on Edmund’s sword.

"Your father carried this into the north. See that it reaches Dragonwatch."

Christopher picked up the weapon. The coffer would require a servant, but the sword he would carry himself.

"It will, Grandfather."

Osbert nodded once and opened the study door, and Christopher crossed the passage with Edmund’s sword in one hand and the coffer key in the other, the pendant resting unseen against his chest. Osbert had given him a sword, gold, and an old family duty—but the northern assignment was still an exile, even if no one called it that.

When Christopher pictured Dragonwatch, he saw only the tiny mark at the edge of the map; he had said yes because there had been little room for another answer. In his room, he locked the door before taking out the pendant again.

The first wagon moved before sunrise, and Christopher heard it from his room: wheels grinding over stone, an ox bellowing in the lower yard, someone shouting for a lantern. The castle had not fully awakened, but the people leaving it had been at work for hours already. Agnes fastened the last buckle on his travel bag.

"You should wear the thicker cloak, Young Master."

"It is warm outside."

"It will not remain warm all the way to Dragonwatch."

"The cloak is in the wagon."

"The wagon may be half a mile away when you decide you need it."

Christopher looked at her, and when she held out the cloak, he took it. Edmund’s sword rested against the bed; he had spent part of the previous night adjusting the belt, but the weapon still hung differently from his own, longer and slightly heavier, so he would need time before drawing it felt natural. The patriarch’s pendant lay beneath his shirt. He had tried to study it after locking his door, but the shallow lines on the back formed no letters he recognized, and activating the Dragon Eyes showed only Essence gathered within the metal; the moment he focused more deeply, pain began behind his eyes.

He stopped. Whatever the pendant was, he would not discover it by blinding himself before the journey even began. Agnes noticed him touching his chest. "Is something wrong?"

"The strap beneath my coat is twisted."

She stepped closer; Christopher lowered his hand. "I fixed it." The lie passed without difficulty, and he buckled Edmund’s sword around his waist and lifted the travel bag before Agnes took it from him.

"I can carry that."

"I know, but I can carry my own bag."

She carried it anyway. The lower yard was crowded when they arrived, servants moving between horses while the last small carts waited near the gate and Walter Fenwick inspected their loads. Ivo Barrow sat on his horse, already dressed in mail and plainly waiting for someone to notice. The fifty families had gathered beyond the walls, smoke from their cookfires hanging over the eastern field. Godfrey stood beside Christopher’s horse.

"You’re late," he said.

Christopher checked the yard clock and found that Godfrey was right by several minutes. "Agnes made me take another cloak."

"Then you may thank her north of Griffin City."

Agnes handed the travel bag to a groom, and Christopher checked that the small iron-bound coffer had already been secured inside the covered baggage wagon, sitting beneath folded canvas and two boxes of estate records. Bennet Cole had entered it on the private list as personal property, without recording its contents; only Bennet, Godfrey, and Osbert knew that Christopher carried extra gold, and Godfrey simply trusted him.

"Where are the apprentices?" Christopher asked.

"Six with the lead wagons, six with the rear," Godfrey said. "Walter will ride ahead. Ivo has asked to command the rear guard."

"Did you give him command of the rear?"

"I did."

Christopher’s eyes went to the younger Bronze Knight. "Why?"

"Because he asked for work instead of waiting to be given it."

That was fair. The doors behind them opened, and Osbert crossed the yard with Hugh and Ranulf several steps behind him. The Viscount wore no armor, only a dark coat bearing the silver badge of House Drake; his sons had dressed for an audience rather than a departure. The servants stopped what they were doing, and Christopher bowed. "Grandfather." Osbert’s gaze lingered on Edmund’s sword, but he said nothing about it.

"Is everything ready?"

"As ready as we can make it."

Hugh’s gaze moved toward the baggage wagon. "The house has provided enough. If anything is missing, it can be bought in Griffin City." Christopher remembered the coffer hidden beneath the canvas.

"Yes, Uncle."

"You should watch the prices," Hugh continued. "Merchants will hear where you are going and assume you are desperate."

"He is desperate," Ranulf said.

Osbert turned his head, and Ranulf smiled without warmth. "For skilled workers, Father."

"Of course," Christopher said.

Hugh waited. A memory supplied the argument he expected—Christopher demanding masons, Hugh reminding him that beggars did not choose their gifts, but Christopher left the words where they belonged, and Hugh’s mouth drew tight. Osbert held out a sealed packet. "These are the letters you will need at Griffin City and Northgate. The royal office has been informed that you are traveling under the reclamation order." Christopher accepted it. "Thank you, Grandfather."

"The commander at Northgate may know what happened around Dragonwatch during the war. Listen to him before you make plans."

"Yes, Grandfather."

"Do not divide the settlers until you know the roads are secure."

"Yes, Grandfather."

"And send word from Griffin City."

"I will."

Osbert’s mouth tightened; there were probably a hundred other instructions he still wanted to give. Instead, he placed one hand on Christopher’s shoulder.

"Keep them alive."

Christopher looked past the gate toward the families waiting in the field.

"I will do what I can."

The Viscount removed his hand. Hugh offered Christopher a formal nod. "For the honor of House Drake."

"For the honor of House Drake," Christopher repeated.

Ranulf said nothing. Christopher mounted, the unfamiliar sword striking the saddle and forcing him to adjust it while a stable boy pretended not to notice. Godfrey climbed onto his own horse beside him.

"A commanding start," the Silver Knight said quietly.

"Ride farther away."

Godfrey stayed where he was. Walter gave the signal from outside the gate, and the convoy began to move: first six mounted apprentices and two light carts carrying tools for road repairs, then the heavy wagons in pairs, oxen leaning into their harnesses. Families walked beside them with bundles on their backs and children held by the hand, while livestock came near the middle, surrounded by shouting boys and increasingly unhappy dogs. Martha Cole stood on the step of the kitchen wagon and counted sacks as they passed.

Bennet walked beside her with his writing board.

"Two hundred and forty-three," he called when he saw Christopher.

"People or chickens?"

"People, Young Master."

"And the chickens?"

Bennet looked offended by the question. "Approximately enough." Christopher nodded. "Good." The clerk had remembered.

They rode through the gate after the ninth wagon, the walls of the castle rising behind them, warm in the first light. Christopher had seen those towers before, in memories that did not belong to him—from the practice yard, from the orchard, from the window of a sickroom after his mother died. For the original Christopher, it was home; for him, it had been a place to wake, lie, recover, and learn why everyone expected him to leave. He looked back once.

Osbert remained in the yard; Hugh had already turned toward the keep. Ranulf stood near the gate, watching the convoy with his hands clasped behind him, and Christopher could not tell whether his uncle was pleased to see him go or merely relieved that the decision had been carried out. The gatehouse hid them as the road curved east, and the castle disappeared. Christopher faced forward. The southern countryside spread around them in green fields and low wooded hills, farmhouses standing near the road and smoke rising from village chimneys. It was a peaceful morning for the beginning of an exile.

People came out to watch them pass. Some bowed when they recognized House Drake’s colors; others only stared at the loaded wagons and the families heading north. News traveled quickly, and they knew where the convoy was going—a woman beside a well made a sign against misfortune, and Christopher pretended not to see. By midmorning, the line had stretched farther than Walter wanted: one ox had lost a shoe, two children had wandered into the wrong family group, and a cart loaded with seed had sunk to its axle in a muddy ditch.

The entire convoy stopped. Christopher watched four men push at the wheel while Godfrey dismounted.

"How much time have we lost?" Christopher asked.

"Enough to shorten the midday halt," Godfrey said.

Christopher climbed down from his horse, and they freed the cart with rope and a second team of oxen, nearly an hour’s work. By the time it returned to the road, mud covered Christopher’s boots and the lower half of his coat; Ivo looked surprised to find him helping, though Walter did not. The convoy moved again, only to stop a second time less than an hour later. This time no wheel had broken: two farming families had begun arguing over which wagon should carry an elderly woman who could no longer keep pace, each wagon already overloaded, each family insisting the other had more room.

Walter brought the matter to Christopher. The two farmers stood beside him with their caps in their hands, while the old woman waited on a folded blanket near the roadside, furious at everyone.

"I can walk," she said, though she nearly fell when she tried to stand. Christopher looked over the nearest wagons; moving sacks from one to another would only shift the problem.

"Put her in the kitchen wagon," he said.

Martha Cole, who had arrived in time to hear him, stepped forward. "Young Master, that wagon is already crowded with food."

"Move one sack to the tool cart and make room for her."

"As you command. The flour will complain less than she does."

The old woman glared at her. "Your cooking gives it reason." Martha stared back for a moment, then pointed at the wagon step. "Get in." The matter ended there.

Christopher ordered Bennet to make a list of anyone too old, young, sick, or injured to walk for an entire day, and the clerk returned with thirty-seven names. They rotated those people through the least crowded wagons—which required moving tools, bedding, and three cages of chickens—and though it cost them more time, the line moved faster afterward. When the wagons started again, the old woman sat beside Martha and complained about the hardness of the seat, and Martha handed her an onion to peel.

At noon they stopped beside a stream, where Martha distributed bread, cheese, and onions while the animals drank. Christopher sat beneath an elm with Godfrey and unfolded the route map. Griffin City lay several days ahead, and beyond it the road ran north through richer farmland before narrowing toward Northgate; Dragonwatch did not appear on the main road at all, but someone had added it in faded ink near the upper edge of the map, where it looked less like a destination than a mistake.

Christopher touched the place with one finger. The pendant rested cold beneath his shirt, and the castle was already miles behind them, hidden by low hills.

"How long to Griffin City?" he asked.

"If the wagons hold, six days," Godfrey said.

Christopher pictured the cart they had pulled from the ditch.

"We need to reach it before our food runs low."

Godfrey studied the halted wagons. "Then shorten the line before tomorrow." Martha called for everyone to finish eating, and Walter was already putting the lead riders back into position. Christopher folded the map. The first part of the road had taken half a day, and Dragonwatch waited hundreds of miles beyond it. He stood, brushed the crumbs from his coat, and went to help get the convoy moving again.