“All believed Him doomed among the pines.

  Did he not rekindle those left to slumber?

  Sverog comes afire; See the sprouting tines,

  They adorn, They reach, They hunger.”

  – The Tale of Sverog

  “Your two eldest grandchildren have returned. Time abroad seems to have benefited them. You disapproved, doubting my intentions… It was the right choice, nonetheless. Let them experience some of the world beyond our gates. They know their home well by now. Both have learned what we could not teach them. Egon looks at me differently now, with more sorrow and resentment in his eyes. The same way I looked at you after returning from Nagarvan. Andrea remains blindly compliant. I fear she sees more in me than I am… They do not ask about you.

  “Constant noise, but everything continues unchanged. Unchanging. Years now. And I have grown increasingly disquieted. I walk around, eat, sleep and dream as if it was all one diversion. My own palms and fingers bother me. I don’t know what to do with them… You…

  “Are you listening?”

  Isidor Fernwald glanced up from the floor and at his father. Lonely and loathsome. Locked away. Flesh had long since darkened and thinned into something bloodless and breathless. New growths, spindly limbs and fingers covered his stretched, sharpened face. Others held his lank legs, forming a fearful, fetal presence. Head and torso were antlered and overrun with similar excrescence. The wooden ossuary, a repurposed grand closet, was getting too cramped for his restive frame. It was his vault, but the whole attic had become a prison. The sight endured as a relic of, or testament to, the strange pact between undivided life and unfinished death. His son kept him so for a reason: it was the furthest point from the Gift-immersed ground within the house.

  “Your silence has become intolerable,” he bemoaned. For years, the wasting ossification had not broken their frequent counsel. That too had changed in recent months. He had either descended into a new depth of dissolution or become spiteful due to the isolation forced upon him.

  “You promised to guide me, despite everything. Despite yourself. You instructed me about the importance of our lineage, but not how to guard it. What to do with it? Your only surviving child… abandoned like this?”

  Father remained in the shadowy corners of his ossuary, noiseless. Not yet wholly thoughtless. The persevering son, peerless and puzzled by his own transformations, appealed and abided. He could sense the traces of that foul man within this fragile thing. The silence was favored. Fickle, not fate.

  “Earth. Earth. Earth… Your last words to me. I’m not burying you, Sigmund. Not next to mother. What little love you held will haunt you.”

  Isidor massaged his fallow forehead with two fingers. The act was habitual, beginning at the edge of his brow and lazily rising to his russet hairline. It was an attempt at trying to preserve an old memory, something his body was not allowed to keep. He did it whenever he was trying to think beyond his current mood, when his mind seemed secreted from the rest of him.

  “I don’t understand… The preparations, the sacrifices. For what?” Irritation and ire toppled his will to converse. The limitations of his lineage. “I surrender. Have it your way.” He rose from the bare floor, closed the lacquered ossuary wings and turned to leave.

  Creeping movements in the corner of the narrow room caught his eye. A root, thin and black, had ventured closer towards its previous, unclaimed master. It worked with delicate, deceptive, but ultimately untimely patience. The Gift grows. Isidor drew a small carving knife from his trousers and ended the attempt. The cut made a faint, dry sound, like the snapping of a marrowless bone. The rest of it twitched and retreated into the floorboards. Must find that vein and weed it out. Wouldn’t want Sigmund to conjoin again. He looked around for any other intruders of its sort.

  “I will visit once time allows again,” he said to the ossuary, satisfied with the short survey. “Our failings keep me busy nowadays. I’ll do it alone if I must.”

  A voice called for him, echoing up the staircase. “Patriarch Isidor.” The tone was hushed and dry, a weak wind blowing through an excavated trunk. It did not sound set on any single thought or betray sentiment. “A guest. From the city. A steward. He awaits. Below.”

  Attic door locked behind him, Isidor met it on the landing below. The manorial uprootling resembled a more vigorous version of his sequestered father. All its diverse ligneous fibers wove together something shy of a person’s shape. It was taller than Isidor but perpetually hunched over. Old and unkempt clothing added to its atrocious and absurd appearance. Sensing him, the head tilted and some of its face-fibers parted.

  “Patriarch Isidor. A gues–”

  “Heard you. Let Nakamura know I will be with him shortly.”

  “Not Nakamura. Another.”

  “Not Nakamura? Who then?”

  “Anoth-”

  Isidor pushed the thing aside and hurried down the main staircase. He passed sealed doors, abandoned rooms, invasive branches and neglected studies. Even the walls seemed to curve slightly inward to recognize his hasty descent. The house lived through its own disuse and stagnation. The large drawing room he strode into was not decorated to impress; simply storing and staging what remained of the antique furniture.

  The young man waiting inside stood immediately and bowed. He was stiff and visibly nervous; desperate to justify his presence. “Mr. Fernwald, please forgive my belated arrival,” he said calmly, despite his fearful composure and shortness of breath. His face was smooth, slightly tanned and framed by black hair lined with precise rows of white streaks. The suit was well-tailored and Continental. His fine shoes carried dirt dear to Isidor.

  “You’re not Nakamura. Explain yourself.”

  “Watsuji Nao,” he bowed again, then extended a hand which Isidor ignored. “I was Adjunct to your previous Chief Steward. As of three months ago, I have assumed full management of your holdings and finances.”

  “Three months?” barked Isidor, his voice an amalgamation of amassed annoyances. “Why was he replaced? What happened to him?”

  “As the Original Twins ordain it; nothing has happened. Nakamura Keiji has retired. I am aware that he worked with your family for over five decades. An acquaintance of your great-uncle, Laurent Fernwald, as well. I know that replacing him will be difficult, but I assure–”

  “Why would he retire…? He should have come with you this time, at least.”

  “He is of advanced age, Mr. Fernwald, eighty-nine this year. The trip would have exhausted him greatly.”

  Isidor exhaled slowly, turning his eyes toward the curtained windows and pallid light pressing through bleary glass. Undeterred, the scent of pine seeped into the room from outside. His left hand reached for his forehead again. Unreliable fossils, withering with their wisdom and leaving everything to me… The fingers pressed hard as he faced Watsuji with an effort. The new Chief Steward still stood at attention, expectant and twiglike in the bleak daylight. “I presume that his walks to here have contributed to his longevity,” Isidor said belatedly. “Do you wish to retain the same vigor at that age, Watsuji Nao?”

  “I suppose we all do,” he answered skittishly.

  “Follow, then. I am in no sitting mood.”

  *

  The air outside was cool and undisturbed, only degrees different than in the house. The stillness of the Fernwald Estate was unlike anything Watsuji Nao had encountered on the Continent thus far. He made this clear to his host and employer. The longer they walked, the more it availed him. No wind, no hum of insects, no excitable movement in the underbrush. A silence not of preying absence, but of secure assurance. The Estate was contained, self-sustaining within its bosky borders. A place that had no wish or want to acknowledge the world beyond itself. It thrust the young man into thoughts of the secluded Isles of his homeland. That too he spoke about.

  Isidor walked ahead of him, heedful of his comments and comparisons, boots traversing over the old stone path imperceptible under loam and mulch. Watsuji followed, trying to fall into step beside him. They passed a brackish lake: careless, capturing the sky in its murk. White willows leaned towards it, long foliage trailing and dripping against the surface. As they walked along the water’s edge, their reflections shared their path through their own phantom-world.

  “Your situation thus far has been stable,” Watsuji announced when they were alone again. “But there are complications we must go over.”

  Isidor gave the smallest tilt of his head, an acknowledgment rather than assent.

  “The first issue concerns the new financial regulations being debated in the Assembly. These new policies would allow for greater oversight into banking operations. Particularly those with assets tied to long-term holdings. The aim is to exert greater influence over this sector under the guise of civic integrity. FW Bank has come under scrutiny, despite its forthright business practice.”

  They reached a narrow path, where the pine needles were thick underfoot, absorbing even the soft sound of their steps and hiding the roots below. The trails of dendrasic lineage gleamed on certain trunks; thin amber threads hardening into ridges. Between the ranks of pines and on occasional mounds, durmast oaks spread their wide, heavy crowns. “Careful not to trip here,” was Isidor’s only remark.

  “The Assembly has been subtle about it, but the intent is clear. They want to limit private financial structures that exist outside of the city’s auspices. That includes your family’s Bank and investments. If they succeed, they may gain the power to audit or even seize funds that are deemed non-compliant with their new regulations. As stated, the issue is not that they will find something. However, any audit or wider investigation itself might shut down the institution for months, if not years. The consequences would be ruinous.”

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Underhandedly so. What else?”

  “The second issue is your publishing house.” That caught a significant share of Isidor’s attention. Watsuji saw the small shift in his posture, the way his gaze tilted in his direction. “It is failing. Rapidly. Farwood Press has not produced anything of significant commercial value in the last decade. It is hemorrhaging funds with no prospect of return…”

  Hemorrhaging? Nakamura must have instructed him on that choice.

  “…Sales are stagnant, the readership is dying off, and whatever prestige it once had is no longer enough to sustain it. Neither can FW Bank cover its losses.”

  “The tedious woe of reading…I am not surprised.”

  “A shameful aspect of our Age,” affirmed Watsuji mirthlessly. “An observation, if I may: The citizens of Eisenstadt seem to value three things: the Eisenmark, amusement and whatever contributes to the increase of the first two.”

  Isidor chuckled. “Are things any different in your own homeland?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Time plows on regardless of distance. Although I have been working on your shores for some years now, many things still amaze and confuse me. The biggest surprise is always finding hints of home in a foreign land. I do not want to overemphasize the differences.”

  “The Isles of Naramui… I’m certain we have some kin there. How would a Naranaha publisher deal with this difficulty then?”

  “Adapt. Your publishing house is the oldest in the city. There is prestige in that, but little profit. Its historic and arcane focus simply isn’t suited for the modern market.”

  “You’d have me print popular scobs under my family’s name?”

  “I believe the term for such quality within Eisenstadt is dross. And there is a vast and voracious readership precisely for it. Millions of workers dozing through empty hours alongside easy reads. If reputation is the concern, the solution is simple: a separate imprint. The parent house remains untouched, its purpose unaltered. Speaking of which, I recommend you also expand–”

  “That will do it, Chief Steward. You have my permission to carry out this scheme. Concerning the details, do what you think is best. As long as you remain mindful of my priorities.”

  “You need not be concerned. Nakamura entrusted me with many stories of your great-uncle’s dedication to the written word. I will do my best to keep your legacy untarnished. You have my word.”

  “You have earned your respite,” said Isidor, gesturing with his head. “Up here.”

  They turned onto an uphill path that led them above the trees previously looming over them. The lulling muteness of the environment was interrupted only by the suppressed sound of Watsuji’s labored breath. They soon arrived at a stony summit above the foliage, where a dozen writhen lindens grew. Their lower trunks bulged and twisted, as if new limbs were struggling to sprout. Ashy bark covered them up to the tips of the branches, where a darker shade revealed and culminated in the veins of their leaves. They were the Estate’s most distinctive landrace.

  Only Watsuji sat on one of the cracked slabs that welcomed them. Eisenstadt was visible in the distance, midday glow blending into the hazy horizon. Isidor surveyed the luminous reach with a scowl. “Explain the first matter to me again. I was under the impression my father ensured that it ran quietly and undisturbed – that he had assurances from the right people.”

  “According to Nakamura, your late father made some kind of arrangement with the Office of the Mayor, during the sixties. He dramatically limited the family’s involvement in city affairs but gained certain guarantees about noninterference and privacy. That is the extent of what I know. As for FW Bank, there are no real legal problems or difficulties that we can address from within. The trouble is imposed from outside. What I suspect is that the arrangement has been exhausted, considering your father has been dead for over fourteen years.”

  “Almost fifteen. He failed to inform me of this deal.”

  “I was also told that your father suffered greatly after a series of family tragedies. That his suffering only multiplied over time. Please do not mistake my inquiry for vulgar curiosity, but how drastic was his condition? Is it possible he forgot, or refused, to tell you?”

  “Drastic? He ceased to be himself. Yet he had plenty of opportunities to share this with me.” Furtive old fool. Of course he had to keep me in the dark. “I suspect he wanted me to stay clear of these matters. Unlikely that he simply forgot.”

  “Those may have been his wishes, but these developments seem to be designed, at least in part, to force you out of seclusion. If our lands are not so different, then I suspect this is a veiled message.”

  “A message?”

  “Make a new pact with us or lose what was granted to you. That is how the Isle Lords converse; threats and taunts through mist. Ultimately, I suspect the new Mayor requests your presence.”

  “That treacherous morass and its trickeries… The Arts are more direct!”

  “All the same. A move has been made; a message sent. Now it is your turn. As your Chief Steward, I advise you to respond to the invitation. Talk to them, the Mayor and his people, and these difficulties might disappear.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” mumbled Isidor, facing his brilliant foe in the distance. “I will have to consult on these matters more before I decide, but thank you for the sagely judgment.”

  “The Naraseva does not require praise but values your words, Mr. Fernwald. We deeply treasure the continued clientage of your family. It is my personal ambition to continue this partnership and safeguard your trust.”

  All dutiful and ad rem. Isidor turned and saw his new Chief Steward slouched on the sun-warmed slab. His collar was loose and tie undone. The reddened and sweaty face smiled. He can’t be older than Egon. “We should return now. You seem rested.”

  “I am refreshed,” agreed Watsuji. He stood and wiped his face with a crimson handkerchief. “Your Estate is equally beautiful and demanding.”

  “Nakamura often made similar remarks,” Isidor spoke, ruminating as they followed the hill’s descent. “No doubt our walks invigorated him and contributed to his accomplished age. Remind him of that.”

  The walk back was longer than Watsuji expected. Grain crunched underfoot where the cobbled path met the loose, grass-bitten gravel of the old road. A gate overgrown with crossvine came into view, iron bones fleshed in red blossom. The Chief Steward seemed relieved to see the outline of a black vehicle waiting just beyond the mesh. Isidor spotted another on the other side of the driveway. Now he arrives…

  The unwanted visitor leaned against his green sedanette and gnawed on a spent cigarette, with one hand resting on his belt. Beneath the white collar and brown coat, a pale ruff showed where the Soshanaha-red fur faded along his neck and wrists. Most notably, his Hands of Shanyara were narrow and sharp, more like winding talons than the jointed digits of the Toranaha. The colors and composition should have been striking, especially before these gates, but they made Zetemon Moss appear like two undecided ideas of a person alloyed haphazardly.

  Vaso Kram goggled him from the fence, gargoyle-tense and guarding in his posture. Old, thin and twitchy, he failed at his self-appointed role. His cursing rose from wary mumble to valiant growling as his master approached. “You’re a driver. Not a gatekeeper,” Isidor reminded him ineffectually. “Return our guest back to his offices.” Vaso pretended for a while longer before leading Watsuji Nao to the car. The machine hummed to life and began its slow descent over the driveway. Isidor waited for the taillights to disappear into the curve of the woods before turning his attention to Zetemon Moss. “Why come all the way here instead of calling?”

  “I have news, but your diligent housekeepers tend to ignore my calls,” sneered Moss, throwing away the cigarette butt. “I was also hoping to see the Estate–”

  “You won’t,” announced Isidor and gestured to the Kram’s decrepit house. “We’ll talk here.”

  They sat at an outdoor table with matching stone seats. The structure nearby was a functional relic, rotten and caving in but with a well-maintained facade. It was equipped with all the necessities required of their station half a century ago. Unlike the Fernwald Estate behind the gate, it had electricity. Vera Kram – old, thin, twitchy and Vanahan as her husband – issued from it not long after they had settled. Isidor whispered something to her, and she promptly returned with a tray, two porcelain cups and a simple iron teapot.

  “She’s nimbler than she looks,” observed Moss after she had poured and retreated into her abode. Nothing up close suggested that time weighed on her perilously. “Right then, as requested, I followed the lines of inquiry you provided concerning your legacy and progeny. First matter has to do with Laurent. I’ve been able to locate a vault registered to his name. Took me longer than I’d like to admit.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “Guild of Eidomantic Artisans and Engravers. Although everyone calls them the Enchanting Guild these days. A fine place in Central Eisenstadt. Over the phone, they neither confirmed nor rejected the existence of the vault. Wards of denial and ignorance, as you’d expect. But he’s on their records. I’ve seen that personally. Dated, signed, sealed. Some sixty years ago.

  “I tried to access it,” continued Moss. “Did the dance. Told them who I represented. Showed them the papers. Forged your signature, like you told me to do. Even used my left hand.”

  “And nothing?”

  “And a lot of it. Smiled and shoved me out the door. Said the contents are not for transfer or tampering. If they did exist! Confidentiality, masterclass… I’m afraid you’ll have to go in person.”

  “Sigmund mentioned a certain Talbert to me once. Scathingly. Is he still Guildmaster?”

  “That’s the bald mope. The man’s traditional but known to respect lineage. Your best chance is to talk to him directly.”

  “What else?” urged Isidor with a palm over his brow.

  Moss hesitated before reaching into his coat and producing a battered, warped notebook. The thing looked recently salvaged from an ancient landfill. Stains and specks of every variety clung to the warped cover. “Might be something, or nothing,” he cautioned, placing it on the stone surface. “I’m hedging it once belonged to your missing boy.”

  The item made Isidor suspicious, almost repulsed. He refused to reach for it straight off and took his tea instead.

  “First name’s on the initial page, if a bit smudged and partial. I flipped through it only to verify the general character. To me, it’s incomprehensible arcanum. Couldn’t make sense of it. Must be his.”

  “You didn’t check it fully?”

  “Of course not, could be family Secrets. I’m mindful – a professional.”

  Isidor gave him a dubious glance and opened the notebook. The first few pages were blackened and half-torn, filled with simple Elemental fourfolds and physiognomic sketches. Notes on muscles, ligaments and ratios. Uninspiring content on the initial dozen pages. He tilted it toward the light, but the sparse handwriting was barely legible. Tense, tyrannical in its pressure and boldness.

  He turned more pages and the content degenerated rapidly. Doodles of curvy torsos, open mouths, exaggerated attributes. Gigantic genitalia, alone or attached. Sometimes drawn alone, sometimes as part of grotesque scenes. More bodies. Piles of them. Paleomorphs copulating with anatomically modern humans. Orgiastic offal overall. A few impossible, incomprehensible arrangements annotated with childish comments. One of them, purposefully discernible, read: What’s that sprouting there? It was enough. What did I expect… Rectitude? Isidor snapped the smut shut and threw it at Moss with sincere strength. It hit his forehead, between his horns, and bounced to the flagstone with a thud.

  “What kind of idiotic insult is this?” barked Isidor as he rose. His voice, always temperamental, carried a truculent tone. It tottered between coldness and cruelty, crashing clamorously without caution and recomposing itself at unexpected moments. As if neither state could control him for long. “You bring me offensive garbage? Some simpleton’s indecency? After three months’ worth of largesse and full retainer!?”

  Moss blinked and cowered. “It’s what I found. It’s his. It must be,” he wheedled with his palms in the air. “Who else… Look, it’s filthy, yes. But it could be encrypted. He might’ve been keeping notes, studying–”

  “Studying…?”

  Finding and reaching for the tousled notebook, Moss brushed it off. “I didn’t raise him,” he blurted carelessly. “You’re blaming the wrong man.”

  “What?” The knuckles of Isidor’s left hand struck the stone tabletop. Moss flinched, falling further and backing away on his rear. “Pathetic, ill-favored little leech… You bring me that,” he shouted and pointed at the material Moss was gripping. “Then you presume to lecture me?”

  “I’m doing what I can. You’re the one who–”

  “Darkest Saints!” he shouted again and shifted away. Isidor’s hands trembled and found his face. Fingertips pressed against his brow and temples. Damned fool! Damned world of fools! To Moss, it seemed as if he was digging into his skin to extricate the whole experience from his flesh. At long last, he exhaled, arms slacking and eyes uninterested in anything further. “Drive away. Don’t bother the Krams. Return only when I summon you.”

  “I’m still working on other leads. There might be more soon.”

  “I’ve seen enough. Go.”

  Isidor Fernwald paced tiredly towards the crossvine without another word or glance. The foliage and blossoms on the gate stirred as he shut the adjacent gate. Zetemon Moss watched him vanish before standing up with the notebook. He dusted it off and sampled it alongside the tea. The underlying force and sheer ferocity he saw embedded in the pages made him smile. “Your boy, sir,” he cackled, vindicated. “No doubt about it…” Returning it to his coat, he strolled to his sedanette. He opened the door, lit a cigarette and waved at Vera Kram. The woman shook her head aversely and collected the tray.