Death of a Duchess
The rest of Gilgaed's rule was marked by quiet diplomacy and slow, calculated mustering of the duchy's resources. But one last test was to come. In 541, a lone assassin stole into the ducal castle and slew Fiarelle with an envenomed dagger. Mourning and outrage swept the city
of Haes. Even the normally sanguine Gilgaed raged through his library while his servants watched in fear. When finally Braedonnal lifted the exhausted duke from the ruins of his books, the commander asked permission to punish the offender. Gilgaed had only to name the culprit.
Gilgaed bent his resources to investigation. He would have proof, and certain proof, before he set his armies against anyone. The people were sure that Alamie was the only possible suspect in the affair, and a wealth of circumstantial evidence supported the common wisdom. But Gilgaed searched on, demanding hard evidence. When none could be found, he relinquished his revenge. In a speech to his people, he announced that there would be no retribution unless some day brought indisputable proof of Alamie's involvement. Once again, Gilgaed won the respect of those who worship moderation, the scorn of those who love battle.
After Fiarelle's murder, Gilgaed was never the same. He spent his days in quiet study, while Braedonnal assumed full control of military matters and diplomats gradually assumed the tasks their duke once relished for himself. Eventually—be it from age, or grief, or an unknown cause—Gilgaed put aside his books. A newfound delight in mechanical toys consumed most of his waking hours, and he exchanged his grave counselors for the more cheerful company of the children of the court. By the time he was sitting upon the floors of his halls, however, his closest advisers encouraged him—during more lucid moments —to invest his successor with his regency.
Thus did the stewardship of Tuornen pass to the current regent
Gilgaed bent his resources to investigation. He would have proof, and certain proof, before he set his armies against anyone. The people were sure that Alamie was the only possible suspect in the affair, and a wealth of circumstantial evidence supported the common wisdom. But Gilgaed searched on, demanding hard evidence. When none could be found, he relinquished his revenge. In a speech to his people, he announced that there would be no retribution unless some day brought indisputable proof of Alamie's involvement. Once again, Gilgaed won the respect of those who worship moderation, the scorn of those who love battle.
After Fiarelle's murder, Gilgaed was never the same. He spent his days in quiet study, while Braedonnal assumed full control of military matters and diplomats gradually assumed the tasks their duke once relished for himself. Eventually—be it from age, or grief, or an unknown cause—Gilgaed put aside his books. A newfound delight in mechanical toys consumed most of his waking hours, and he exchanged his grave counselors for the more cheerful company of the children of the court. By the time he was sitting upon the floors of his halls, however, his closest advisers encouraged him—during more lucid moments —to invest his successor with his regency.
Thus did the stewardship of Tuornen pass to the current regent
