Mat was no one.
The oppressive silence of the stone walls set Mat's nerves on edge. The leather of his gloves creaked against his hard knuckles as he gripped his hands tightly behind his back. In that moment Mat decided he was tired of being no one. He lifted his gaze to study his surroundings, as Gareth’s equal would. The Great Hall was long and the ceilings so high and vaulted that Mat couldn't quite see the top. Windows taller than any man lined the walls, arched and grated against the winter to come. The motes of dust shone like stars and danced in the fading fall dusk.
Lord Callum, Gareth, the knights... they all wanted Mat to learn his place. They wanted him to be complacent as a bastard, a man with no surname and therefore no value in their eyes, except to serve them. Mat felt a familiar churning in his gut at the thought. It was always there, pulsing just beneath his skin, his anger. A roiling hunger to prove them all wrong. They could beat him all they wanted, but with every blow they fueled that molten hunger within. What he wouldn’t tolerate was anyone, no matter their station, tearing down Finn the same way. One day, Mat would rise above his station and claim his knighthood. One day, when people looked at him, they would see a man of honor. When they did, he would stop them from hurting anyone else.
Mat glanced at the other man, noting Gareth's lack of respect and his blatant refusal to stand at attention as they waited. His complete disregard for the nobility of the house didn't come as a surprise. Instead he seemed strangely unaffected by the grandeur of the hall.
Mat kept his soldier’s stance, the epitome of contrition, muttering a breathless prayer that Lord Callum recognized Gareth’s impertinence and took mercy on Mat. The minutes stretched and the longer they stood waiting, the faster the blood began to rush in his ears.
"Gentlemen!" The Lord's booming voice echoed in the space, the words themselves startling Mat out of his reverie. No one had ever called Mat a gentleman before, certainly not a man of rank. Lord Callum didn't look angry, as Mat expected. Instead his arms flung open wide in greeting. There was something distinctly feral beneath the saccharine expression in his eyes. Inviting Mat into his Great Hall, speaking to him as an equal, was unusual indeed. Lord Callum was hiding something.
"I hate to keep you both waiting." He said.
Mat glanced at Gareth whose expression was just as disbelieving. Enemies found on equally unsettled ground, muscles tensing and jaws clenched tight, waiting for the trap to spring around them both.
"I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here." Neither of them spoke, allowing the silence to blanket the hall. Lord Callum’s careful words, his false congeniality, terrified Mat more than a lashing ever could. He shifted to move his arms to the side and suppressed a hiss as his shoulder throbbed from the shallow cut still bleeding freely from earlier in the afternoon. It wasn't deep enough to require stitches, only serving as a distraction.
"I'm told this isn't the first time you've caused trouble on the training grounds." Lord Callum’s sharp eyes landed squarely on Mat’s tense form. Mat stopped himself from lowering his gaze again in shame. "I'm also told that you've petitioned seven times to join the legion."
Mat nodded; his jaw clenched tight against the words on the tip of his tongue. Wind rattled the lattice of the windows as Mat fought to keep his temper in check. Seven times petitioned; seven times denied without the courtesy of showcasing his skill with a sword.
"It's been a long time without a war to fight." Lord Callum commented, taking his time to inspect the two men. Mat was self-conscious about his open, bleeding wound and the mud coating his pants and boots. He wondered if he'd made mud tracks on the floor. Lord Callum looked at them both expectantly but they stayed silent. Sighing, he rubbed a hand over his graying hair.
"Alright, I'll get right to it. Have either of you been to the Neither Wood at the crest of the Mylean Valley?"
"No, M’lord," echoed from both of them in gravelly, unused voices.
"My family owns a hunting lodge there, and I am sending the both of you to the southern edge of the wood to bring back as much hunted game as you can carry in a wagon. Skinned and preserved. And for the gods sake, take your time." Lord Callum stared pointedly at Gareth as he spoke. Something was wrong. The nobles bought whatever supplies they needed. Why would Lord Callum send them so far away on what was essentially a hunting trip? This wasn’t a punishment.
"Lord Callum, permission to speak?" Mat requested.
His dark eyes widened in a way Mat was all too accustomed to, as if he’d forgotten about Mat’s presence even after speaking to him. He extended a hand laden with rings to Mat who almost took it between his dirty gloves before realizing his mistake and pulling the leather off with a snick. He bowed his head low over the rings and cleared his throat, rising only to see a dangerous glint on Lord Callum’s face.
Gripping Mat’s fingers tight he pulled him closer, the pad of his pointer finger twisting the band of the signet ring resting on his hand. After a long, tense pause and another awkwardly cleared throat, Lord Callum’s careful mask covered the danger Mat noticed peeking through his painted expression.
"Steele, is it?"
"Matioch Steele, M’lord. I'm a simple man, and while I appreciate your leniency, I don't understand it. Are we not to be punished for fighting? The blood moon ceremony is tonight. We should expect there will be a light winter at the worst. Why then should we need to restock the meat cellars?"
Lord Callum's face took on a grey pallor; in fact, he looked rather sick. He clapped his hand on Mat's shoulder, pulling him further into the room.
"What do you know about the half-bloods?" Lord Callum didn't seem to want an answer, instead he continued on. "Five of our grain stores were raided by the savages near the border of the Neither Wood. Even a mild winter could be fatal for many of us here if we do nothing."
Mat nodded, his head spinning from the news. Dread filled the pit of his stomach. When Lord Callum said this winter would be fatal, he didn’t mean to his family. Hidden away from the slicing winter winds and threats of starvation, they would ride out the season in excess and comfort. No, it would be the villagers who died in their stead.
"Bloody mongrels, refusing to stay in their place." Lord Callum grumbled hatefully.
Mat nodded again, bored with his cruelty. After all, Mat refused to stay in his place too. He didn’t like the circuitous way the Lord spoke. Mat preferred when men did not dress in velvet and gold threads and said what they meant. But simplicity never helped raise a man’s station in life. If Lord Callum wanted to be cruel and manipulative, Mat was willing to let him so long as he benefited from it. Not very knight-like, but he could work on that.
"M’lord, I have one request." Mat said, pausing until Lord Callum waved his hand in continuance. "Allow me to take a few lads, commoners, to help us."
"It will be dangerous. The half-bloods traveling camps are always near the lodge. I can’t guarantee their safety. You cannot fail to return before the first blizzard. The pass will be frozen over and impossible to cross after that and you’ll be stranded. Do you understand me?" He peered imperiously down his hawk-like nose at the two of them.
"Of course, M’lord." Mat said with a bow of his head. Gareth stayed silent the entire time, assessing the situation with a predatory glint in his eyes. He offered nothing but a nod of acknowledgement.