How low the sky

It was very hard to keep a straight face, to keep his thoughts from wandering into doubt or self-ridicule. Tiberius knew no one in Minrathous had ever thought of him as a serious person. All the magic in the world would never be good enough, would never change anything.

But he took hold of Tacitus’ rough hands and listened gravely to his seneschal's improvised oath. (He’d never thought of the House as gendered before, like a ship.) Oaths needed to be reciprocal to have meaning, to be more than just a slave’s shackle. Silly as it was, he wanted to be a better lord than his Grandfather had been. Tiberius extemporized.

“I hear you, Tacitus Ursus. For your skill and your wisdom, I give you a place in my House and at my hearth. I grant you the protection of my name and my ear to your grievances. And if you should fall in my service, I will grant the same to your family.” A dreadful thing to consider, an unknown number of lives between his fingers right now and forever more. Tiberius smiled and let go of his hands. He pushed the chair back to get up.

“And I have one other gift, I suppose.” He strode toward the back of the tower, conjuring a silvery orb of light to see by. A warded display case lurked between the stacks, covered in dust. A sword of blackened silverite lay inside, gleaming sullenly. Tiberius shredded the protective spells with a dismissive motion of his other hand.

“Our glories do us no good locked away in the dark, wouldn’t you agree?” He lifted the blade out and reversed his grip, offering it to Tacitus hilt first with an elegant bow. “Do me the honor of carrying Light’s Sorrow for us again.” He’d need to get a sheathe made. The sword’s uncanny ability to slice through barrier spells made Tiberius a little uncomfortable, even though it was his to give or take away.

“I think it’s killed more mages than Grandfather saw years.”