So how did Anomen manage to end up with that family shield, anyway?

'Good business... By my word, if this isn't the young master Anomen?'

There was a rattle as the guard stepped aside, and, upon noticing the new suit of armour and holy symbol that Anomen himself was wearing, he greeted him with a little more familiarity than might be expected from a family servant.

'How do you fare?... I gather that all is well at the temple?'

Anomen eagerly answered – the man, after all, had been one of those who had first instructed him in the handling of weapons, in an informal capacity – and filled in the older Helmite on the latest happenings at the temple. A lengthy discussion was tempting, as he had questions of his own regarding the usual course of training as well as temple politics, but other pressing, uncomfortable matters were nagging at his mind, capturing his attention.

'And what would be the reason of your visit here today, if I may ask?', the man said.

Anomen sighed inwardly. That, of course, was the question he had dreaded to hear – now he would have to explain, and he would have to go in through that damned door after all.

'I... As it happens, there was a letter waiting for me this morning at the temple... My father, asking me to come and see him as soon as possible...'

He tried reaching into his pocket to produce the evidence, realizing too late that the suit of armour made the manoeuver impossible to achieve. The young man blushed, but the older Helmite reassured him with a smile.

'Ah, yes, I heard him speak of it... Nothing truly serious I expect, do not worry yourself. Before you go, however... I must warn you that he was not in his best state the last time I saw him. That was yesterday evening, and I can only hope that he has recovered by now.'

The man sniffed disdainfully, and Anomen winced.

'Perhaps you wish to come back another day, when he is at the best of his capacities?'

Anomen barked a short, humourless laugh.

'Alas, I suspect I could wait for years, and never find him truly sober. No... 'twould be better to have this be done and over with as soon as possible... I think.'

'As you wish... I would advise you to be mindful in words and gestures, though. Mistress Moira is not home at the moment.'

That was unfortunate indeed, if only because he had not seen his little sister for quite some time, and had hoped that the visit would be an occasion to speak with her at least, maybe take her out on a short walk, if she had the time. Bah. That was another reason to be done with the whole thing and leave the wretched place as swiftly as possible.

Anomen nodded glumly, and the other man opened the door for him.

As soon as he came it, it was like an ill wind had taken hold of his soul. The main hall was dark and cold, in comparison to the blazing heat outside, and all sound had died, snuffed out with the light. Crossing the dimly-lit hallway was like a stroll through memories, some he had thought he had managed to bury deep and forget forever. And yet the sight of an object, or a corner of the room, conjured up images that made each step forward a harsh and painful struggle.

He peered into the kitchen on his right at the end of the hall, but nobody was there. A stray streak of light fell brightly upon the table beneath the window, a plucked chicken hung on display from the ceiling, and the scent of aromatic herbs filled the air, but of human presence there was none. The caretaker and Moira must have gone out to the market together, he thought, or something like that – the thought of his little sister going alone through the filth of Athkatla was not something he cared to contemplate. No signs of Cor, at any rate.

The study, then, upstairs.

The old wooden steps of the staircase creaked louder under his feet than they did in his memories, and he had to keep a strong grip on the handrail to steady himself, and eventually manage another step.

The landing was darker even than the hall downstairs, if that was possible, and Anomen had to lower his head to pass under the beam that hung over the passage into the corridor at the end. One door, two doors on his left.

Anomen halted in front of the third door. He raised his hand to knock but left it hanging. Was that speaking and muttering that he could hear on the other side of the wretched forsaken door? He was at it again then – rambling to himself and to his own dead old mother, pacing up and down the room. He would have to find Moira another place to live, he thought, as soon as he possibly could.

By the Nine Hells and all of the demons in them! Fighting orcs and wizards was no cause of fear for him, nor ogres and wyverns, for that matter. Helm, he would fight even a dragon, if it came to that. But that room, that feeble old man just beyond reach had him completely terrified.

Calm yourself down, he told himself. You're as tall as he is, now. You're trained in combat, and Helm is on your side. He's just a pitiful old drunk with no strength left in his body, he cannot hurt you any more.

And yet somehow, he doubted that.

The ale tasted awfully bitter, even for ale. What was he even drinking the stuff for, already? Business investigation, of course, he reminded himself. Test the new product. Yes.

And yet what was the point of it all, now? All of his ambitions for them – dead. All of his projects – deluded fancies, left out to rot. Unless he came back, yes, unless the boy came back. And then they could anew, his trade empire, and high ranking officials, foreign princes would line up before his door begging the privilege to be invited at his monthly parties, and his heart would swell with pride at the thought of what his children had become.

But they had all betrayed him, all of them, Moirala included. She was the one who had stuffed his son's head with silly fairy tales, after all. Moirala, Anomen, the gods even, Moira too, who took every occasion that she could to sneak out of the house.

No more, he thought. No more. He took another sip of the so-called 'ale', and found it no better the second time around.

A knock on the door.

'Who's there? Moira?'

'It is I, father', said another familiar voice on the other side. 'I received your letter and came to see you.'

Anomen. Good.

'Well, you're not going to see me through that door, are you?'

In he came, with a sound of rattling metal, and Cor burst out laughing.

He knew all about it, he had expected it of course, but seeing it was quite another thing. Maybe that was Helm's idea of a vengeance, for all the blasphemies he had spoken over the years against the god his wife revered. The boy, thankfully, looked at him uneasily, with perhaps even a twinge of fear. Couldn't have born a look of pride or smugness on that face, no, not here, not now. Still the same kid after all then, nothing changed but an added tin can.

Cor barked another laugh, and the boy twitched – dear gods, what would they be doing with one like him in that Order of his?

'So, the proud son of the Delryns has come back home after all. How long is it you've been away? One year? Two years? Wouldn't hurt you to come and visit your old father from time to time.'

'I... You sent for me, father. I thought you wanted to speak with me.'

'Bah.' Cor disregarded the interruption. 'Now look at yourself. You could at least have made yourself presentable before appearing before me.'

The boy's shoulders tightened, his jaw clenched. His eyes darted to the door. Oh no, you don't. I still need you here yet.

'Speaking of which, I heard you had difficulties with obtaining a shield.'

'I...'

Cor raised his eyes to the ceiling.

'As a matter of fact, yes, I did!', the boy said, his voice firmer, a twinge of anger bubbling close under the surface. 'It will be some time before I can afford one myself, and the temple doesn't...'

Cor Delryn raised his hand.

'Couldn't that precious Order of yours help you out there?', he interrupted him impatiently. 'From what I've heard and seen, a handful of danters wouldn't be too much to fork out for one of their best knights.'

'The temple of Helm would have to...' Anomen stammered, his face a dozen shades of red by now. 'I have... still not been knighted as of yet, as it happens.'

Another laugh, deep from the belly, impossible to stop. By all the gods, he would fully doubt the boy was even his if he didn't look like him so much.

'Ah. So the Order and Cor Delryn do agree on something at last.'

He didn't leave him the time to let that sink in.

'Come here.'

He beckoned him to come closer, and the boy obeyed, cautious and weary. To the table in the corner of the room, where the thing lay. It had been there for days, collecting dust, ever since a servant had taken it out of the attic more than a tenday ago, the day before Cor wrote the letter. It would be gone soon, and a good riddance too.

Anomen looked at the shield in reverence and awe, as if he was afraid to touch it. He could almost glimpse the confused thoughts that were rambling in his head.

'Father, I...'

'Hush. Take it. Do your old father a service, and get this piece of junk out of his hands.'

The boy observed the shield some more and finally dared to lift it, examine it from every angle, feel its weight on his arm.

'I... Thank you', he said, turning back to him. 'I will make good use of it, I promise.'

'Bah!'

Cor Delryn spat on the floor.

'Don't go thinking that I'm letting you keep that out of the goodness of my heart. You need it. It's yours. A reminder that you are my son. Something to make you think of me, whenever you walk into the battlefield. And when you fail they'll look at it, and remember that sign, and they will know that a Delryn is not a warrior. I'm pretty sure that they already do. It's you who can't see it.'

'I...'

His face turned a deep shade of red, and yet, slowly, the wave of anger passed.

'I thank you, regardless', Anomen said, his voice tightly controlled, a little sad. 'My deeds will shine on the crest of the Delryns, and reflect upon the good name of our family. Even yours. And it is that that people will think of when looking upon this shield.'

Enough, enough. The laughter again, stronger and louder, that had him hunched over this time, taken his breath away. And coughing, now. Now quick, his handkerchief, in his pocket, or he might choke to death.

'Anomen', he said at last. 'Do yourself a favour and get over yourself already, will ye? Get lost. Out of my sight. I'm growing tired of this conversation.'

The boy looked up at him, and said nothing. Opened his mouth as if to speak, but said nothing. Nodded. Squared his shoulders, and left. Taking the shield with him, of course.

Well.

That was all that they would see, wouldn't they? Looking at that shield. A hapless, incapable boy, one who deliberately and honourlessly ran from his real duties and abandonned his family.

Three months. Three months at the most, that's what I'll give him before he comes back crawling on his knees, begging for forgiveness and for me to take him back and teach him the craft of a merchant. We'll see.

Cor Delryn sat down again and leaned back in his chair, took another sip of the Calimite ale and winced in displeasure. This truly was bitter stuff.