The land of the Vallensarnovs covered seven hills with mansions and acres of vineyards.
The Count's less successful sons were all neighbors.
And they lived like no one else in Garnitus.
In clean robes, a son of Bórgias, Tíwaz walked past the steam carriage, whose noisy engine, of exposed intricate ironworks, leaked smoke all over the mansion's entrance.
The largest building watched over the territory from the top of the northeastern hill. Walls of dark rock and gray eucalyptus wood. Tall windows, with smoked glass on both floors.
From the chimneys, thin wisps of smoke twisted in the air, bittering the damp scent of the eucalyptus trees that stood spaced apart, memories of the old cleared forest where rows of vines were now seen within fences.
"Is this Lord Tíwaz?"
Remarked the butler Wírt, displeased.
Even after the bath, after Bórgias had undressed him and thrown buckets of cold water on him, still in the cell, the boy was a lowly prisoner covered in cuts and bruises, which struggled to heal due to anemia.
"He has as much 'lord' in him as I have of death,"
Bórgias growled from the front, accustomed to the mansion's hallways.
Curious, some of the children followed the trio's passage through the rooms, with the maids shooing them away.
The television remained on, the snowy black and white image the pinnacle of modern technology. It was the first time Tíwaz had seen such a device.
The iron-like, putrid, and permanent smell was the same in any wealthy property.
Always with its door locked, the oratory, with its huge golden cross, was the origin of the lugubrious miasma.
The naked body of the crucified maid, morbidly bleeding, waited to feed the Count.
When they reached the library, Wírt left them.
"Do you know anything?"
Tíwaz asked, lost.
"Shut up,and only speak when ordered to."
"The Count didn't tell you why he summoned me..."
Tíwaz's condescension irritated the guard, who punched him in the face.
The boy fell,with nose and mouth bleeding, and as he prepared for another blow, the door opened.
"What is the meaning of this savagery in my domain?"
The frightened Count Alexei shouted for his men.
"Guards!"
"My lord!"
Bórgias instinctively reached for his saber, and his whiskey-colored eyes vibrated with purple hues.
Other guards, of lower rank than the Colonel, entered the library almost immediately.
"Escort him out."
And Colonel Bórgias's hand moved away from the saber, obeying the authority. After the guards left, the Count spoke to the boy, showing attraction to the wounds, avoiding getting closer.
"Can you get up? What have they done to you?"
Tíwaz deduced that this sentimentality was perfidious, but decided to play along, to join the farce intended by the noble.
"Was my presence ordered?"
The teenager almost fainted, his whole body ached, and blood dripped from his nose onto the mahogany floor.
Alexei did not answer immediately, he gently placed a handkerchief against the boy's face, stopping the hemorrhage. And he presumed:
"You haven't had breakfast?"
The question sounded like mockery to Tíwaz:
"I'm afraid not."
"Come, I'll have the best of what we have served. Can you accompany me?"
To eat? He got up immediately.
And they crossed the hallways walking side by side, as if they were close and not total strangers.
That strange care intrigued the teenager, who was used to not allowing himself hope.
He knew the man beside him was not kind, yet, he couldn't grasp the reason behind the mephitic charity.
And he decided not to think about it while savoring the soup, creamy, of beetroot and cabbage, with pheasant breast, and a sauce of sweetened carrots and golden onions. Or while devouring the potato dumplings, with smoked paprika and wild mushrooms, sautéed with well-seasoned sage.
Even the rustic bread had flavor, and Tíwaz loaded it with marinated vegetables, while having a second helping of soup, and tasted for the first time something so sweet and flavorful, the cream with honey and red berries, alongside the purée of walnuts and hazelnuts.
All this while holding the cloth with dried blood.
After the meal, the handkerchief was offered back to Vallensarnov, who motioned his hand and one of the younger handmaidens, with bandages from wrists to elbows, took it.
"I think now we can talk."
Tíwaz did not interrupt, and the noble reiterated.
"Annually, there is that moment of great anticipation around the noble houses, this happens all over the world."
Noticing that Tíwaz had no idea what the subject was about, he was taught.
"The studies at the Arcane Academy of the Ashen Tree have always been highly contested. There are more nobles than spots. Studying there means having a distinguished future, regardless of the age of convocation or noble title."
"Do your sons study there?"
"Six wives, six putrid wombs. My twenty-seven heirs were transformed into lesser Arcane Academies,"
Lamented the Count.
"Since the end of the Rain, this function was given to the Retinue of the Oracles, to pretermit. They receive the names and locations of the predestined in their dreams. This avoids contention among the kingdoms. For mortals, there is no greater prestige."
"Sounds complicated."
These were the customs of a world unknown to Tíwaz, even if he didn't dislike it, after all, that nonsensical subject had filled his belly.
"It's simpler than it seems. You were chosen."
The sentence was said matter-of-factly, while the noble drank from his cup of steaming tea.
"That's impossible. I have no residence. Nothing, really. How would they find me?"
"The sacred Retinue is never wrong. And I received this papyrus."
It was handed to the young man, covered in many hieroglyphs unknown to the boy, in the unified language.
"I can't read Unified. There's no way they sent this message to me."
"Precisely, they didn't send it to you. It's addressed to me."
"Fuck!"
The youth's surprise did not alter the Count's expression, dedicated to his tea of orchids with blood and dry wine.
"However, everything in this world has its price,"
Decreed Alexei Millis Xaria Vallensarnov.
"In exchange for my forgiveness of your crimes, I will adopt you. Never forget..."
And he was taught.
"... the end of capital is the end of relations."
The noble was the true one responsible for the tortures.
And he was offering a price for the commoner's silence. However, Tíwaz was only good at three things, running, stealing, and negotiating.
"I want them to burn, the six guards. And let that also be the fate of the owner of the property where they bled me."
And Tíwaz read, below the coat of arms carved on the dining room wall. They were runes of the North, the only language the boy knew.
"Empathy is cowardice."
The motto of the Vallensarnovs.
Tíwaz pretended to have control of the situation, and, secretly, saw himself prepared to give up most of his demand.
If he only managed to get Bórgias to the pyre, it would still be enough, however, the Count agreed.
Alexei had weighed the values, and gave up what was, to him, an instrument.
Human instrumentality is the inability to discern the life that serves as one's tools. When worn out, it must be discarded. When incapable, it must be replaced.
It is also about transforming the mind of the instrumentalized man. In all his life, Bórgias was never late for work. And he preferred to abandon his sick wife and children than to miss a day.
The Colonel would kill for the law,and die for what he believed in, and that was what? What he was taught to believe, what favored the one who was his master, and no one else.
For Alexei, having a son, even an adopted one, among the chosen of the Tree, meant incomparable tax benefits, plus the elevation of the family name to another tier of nobility.
That very night, all the torturers were sentenced to the pyre, and the benevolent Vallensarnovs of Vain Garnitus acquired new offspring.