To further facilitate the maturing of my people, I gave Malon some instructions concerning the management of my own estates, and I knew that those practices would spread to the estates of my vassals. I told him that we were going to let the practice of day-labor with a set wage-scale fall into disuse and replace it with the renting out of farmsteads. This was the next logical step toward independence and responsibility. My rents were not exorbitant, nor were they a fixed amount. They were a percentage of the income derived from the crops instead. As time went on, we’d gradually decrease that percentage until it was no more than a token. I wasn’t actually giving them the land, but it came fairly close to that. The token rent encouraged industriousness, and the entire procedure helped to induce that sterling virtue into the fundamental character of the Sendars.
It may come as a surprise to dear old Faldor that his family’s been paying me rent for the use of his farm for generations now.
In time, of course, Malon and Halbren grew old and passed on. I went to my manor house for Malon’s funeral, and then I had a long talk with his son, a surprisingly well-educated man who, for reasons I could never understand, had chosen to use only his surname, Killaneson. Even though I didn’t understand his decision, it gave me a rather warm feeling of continuity. Killaneson rarely broke into the Wacite brogue except when he was excited, but spoke instead in polite language which has come to be quite standard in my former domain.
‘Do you understand what I’m trying to do, Killaneson?’ I asked him when I’d finished explaining the system of rents.
‘It looks to me as if your Grace is trying very hard to evade her responsibilities,’ he replied with a faint smile.
‘You might put it that way, my friend, but I’m actually doing this out of fondness for these people. I want to gently herd them in the direction of independence. Grownups don’t really need to have mother tell them when it’s time to change their clothes. Oh, one other thing, too. Why don’t we let that “Erat” business fall into disuse. This land was called “Sendaria” even before anybody lived here. Let’s go back to that name. The designation of the people here as “Eratians” has always set my teeth on edge, for some reason. Encourage them to start thinking of themselves as “Sendarians”.’
‘Why not do that with a proclamation, your Grace?’
‘I’d rather not make it that formal, Killaneson. My goal here is to just quietly fade out of sight. If we do this right, a few generations from now, nobody will even remember the Duchess of Erat.’
Killaneson’s voice had an almost childish note when he said, ‘Please don’t run off and leave us alone, Mommy.’
‘Stop that,’ I chided him.
Then we both laughed.
It was at the end of the thirty-first century that the debacle in the harbor at Riva took place. The Tolnedrans, convinced that there was vast hidden wealth on the Isle of the Winds, sent a fleet north to try to persuade the Rivans to open their gates to do business. The Rivans weren’t really interested, so they methodically sank the Tolnedran fleet instead. Things were very tense for a while, but after the Cherek Ambassador at Tol Honeth advised Ran Borune XXIV that the Alorn kingdoms would demolish Tolnedra in response to any hostilities directed at the Isle, things settled back down to normal.
The Honethites succeeded the Borunes in the imperial palace at Tol Honeth. Say what you will about the Honeths, they are probably the best administrators of all the great families of the empire, so things quieted down.
As we moved into the early years of the thirty-second century, I began to reduce the staff of my manor house on Lake Erat until there were finally only a few caretakers there. I made arrangements for the rest of the Killaneson family, and I gradually began to fade from the memories of the people who had formerly been subject to me. They called themselves Sendarians now, and I had largely receded into history books and folk-lore.
I did have to come out of my seclusion at mother’s cottage a few times, though. In the mid-thirty-second century, the Bear-Cult in Cherek persuaded King Alreg that Sendaria was a natural extension of his kingdom, and that Belar, the Alorn God, would be angry if Cherek failed its religious obligation to annex my former duchy. Once again I was going to have to try to talk some sense into some thick-headed Alorns. After one particularly offensive earl named Elbrik had stormed ashore and looted Darine, I went falcon and flew on up to Val Alorn to have a few words with the King of Cherek. I settled on to the battlements of Alreg’s rambling palace and went on down several flights of stairs to his smokey throne-room.
King Alreg was an enormous man with a great, bushy blond beard. Despite the fact that there was no real need for it, he wore a steel helmet and a chain-mail shirt as he lounged, beer tankard in hand, on his oversized throne. Quite clearly, Alreg considered himself to be a warrior king.
One of the mailed guards at the door seized my arm as I entered. ‘You’re not supposed to be in here, woman!’ he said roughly to me. ‘Men only in Alreg’s throne-room!’
‘Did you want to keep that hand?’ I asked, pointedly staring at the offending member.
‘Now, see here, woman–’ He did let go of my arm, though.
Then he went rolling across the rush-strewn floor as the force of my Will struck him full in the chest. I enhanced my voice to make myself audible over all the drunken babble. ‘Alreg of Cherek!’ I thundered, and the very walls shook to that overwhelming sound.
The King of Cherek, obviously about half drunk, reeled to his feet. ‘Who let that woman in here?’ he demanded.
‘I let myself in, Alreg,’ I told him. ‘You and I are going to have a talk.’
‘I’m busy.’
‘Get un-busy – right now!’ I strode on down past the smoky fire-pit in the center of his barn-like throne-room, bowling over any Cherek warriors who tried to get in my way. Even in his slightly befuddled state, Alreg realized that something unusual was going on. I reached the foot of the dais upon which his throne stood and fixed him with a very unfriendly stare. ‘I see that the seat of Bear-shoulders has descended to a drunken fool,’ I noted scathingly. ‘How sad. I know he’d be disappointed.’
‘You can’t talk to me that way!’ he blustered.
‘You’re wrong, Alreg. I can talk to you any way I choose. Get that barbarian Elbrik out of Darine immediately!’
‘You can’t order me around! Who do you think you are?’