-
.
Arista didn’t attend Wintertide.
It was a common occurency, as she preferred to avoid social event involving politics, but that time it had been Alric’s decision, and against her preference. She would have gone to see Modina – ot Thrace, as she kept calling her. It was the reason Alric was against it. It was clear the Church didn’t like the idea Arista and their precious Daughter of Novron were somehow friends and the voice it was spreading around were less than appreciative.
Alric had known that he would collide with the Church enough not to mix Arista in the middle.
But Arista, being Arista, hadn’t accepted it with grance.
Consequentially, the moment Alric put his foot back in Essendon Castle after ten days of Wintertide celebration and horror and two days of travelling, she was already there, ignoring his tiredness and all the etiquette.
“So?”
One simple word that gathered all the questions in her mind. It had such a complicate answer Alric was too tired to give her now.
“Forget your birthday party,” he said instead, as he marched inside, his wool coat flapping behind him. “We’ll have work to do, sooner.”
She immediately caugh the implication of it. “So bad?” In her tone, she was blaming him. “Do you think they’ll invade us?” She followed him easy, as she had longer legs than him.
“Not for a little while, I think.” Alric didn’t stop, soldiers and attendants scrutting around to let him pass. “They have to consolidate their power first. Modina’s coronation and Ethereld’s abdication in her steady were the first steps.”
“And then? There will be war?”
“If I don’t bend my knee to them, yes. Probably. I don’t think they’ll leave us alone.” Alric reached the door of his room, then turned to face her. “I have no intention to do that.”
Not after Saldur’s betrayal. Not after that sentinel murder Fanen.
Surprisilingy, Arista nodded, in quiet acceptance. “What can I do?”
“You are the Ambassador of Melengar. Get ready.”
Once Alric had complained about the amount of papers and reports he had to compile daily. Now the fact that his desk was almost empty soured his mood. It was a physical confirmation of the state affairs, other kingdom and fiefs and companies isolating Melengar in order to appeal the New Empire. Arista wrote to him regular, but her letters weren’t of any consolation.
She should be on Galeannon now. In the two previous month she’d travel towards Warric, Rhenydd and Maranor, with little success. Alric had good hope for Rhenydd, at least, but King Utrich and his family’s demise had changed plan and the kingdom was now loyal to Empress Modina.
King Frederik, as much as Alric’s remembered, had no guts enough to change his mind about joining them, despite Arista’s hopefully commentary. At least, the Imperial Army wasn’t marching on Medford yet, and by Hadrian and Royce’s last information they hadn’t any plan yet. But they were ready.
His self-pity while re-reading the letter was interrupted by Captain of the Guards Jeremy. He bowed curtly after allowing the entrance: the idea of a future war had made him gloomy and now he spent his entire time being assured the soldiers were in their best shapes and the weapons sharp. The arrangement for the army had been instead assigned to Sir Ecton, with Count Pickering’s supervision.
“My apologies, Your Majesty. I have been informed from the border sentinels about the arrival of an Imperialist envoy form the Galewryn bridge.”
Alric rose an eyebrow. “An envoy? Now?” When Arista had been in Aquesta, they’d refused to listen to her explanation.
“Members of the Nyphron Church.” Jeremy nodded, well aware Alric had purge Medfrom from their presence as soon as Arista had told him about Saldur’s involvement in their father’s murder. “A man that introduced himself as Deacon Thomas and a group of seret knights.”
“I was pretty clear.” Alric crossed his legs. “I don’t want anyone associate with the church here.”
“We are aware.” Jeremy’s expression didn’t falter. “But the Deacon was very persistent. He wished for an audience with you, as it was a matter of the outmost importance.”
Alric was about to tell him to fuck off, but years as a king had helped temperate his impulse, if only a little. He still didn’t want them in his city, but he remembered the name of the Deacon. It was the same that, during the last Wintertide, had told Modina’s feat at the Noble Feast. It wasn’t hard to guess what he wanted to talk about with Alric.
However, it was interesting, because until that moment Modina had been a ghastly presence, all of her correspondence and action dictated by her two regents as she recovered by killing the beast. The Deacon was the one person that had met her beforehand so maybe he had knowledge unknown at the most.
“Fine, I’ll see him.” Alric threw the letter he was writing away. “But only him. His escort will remain outside our lands. And your guards will escort him in and out.”
With another bow, Jeremy left.
Alric wasn’t in any mood to celebrate. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one. Warric Castle at Wintertide had always buzzing with excitement like a hive. Servants and attendants, despite the increasing fatigues, were more than happy for the upcoming contents and joursts that would come with the nobles gathering, and the food remaining from their tables. For nobles families, it was always a way to strut.
That year, however, the mood was gloomy. Servants and attendants appeared wary, worried, and they only reserved brief look at the upcoming arrivals, fast in their dismissal. No great entrance, no cheerful salute, no big caravans of entourage only for show. People whispered in small group and halted immediately when someone strangers came nearer.
Alric brought with him only Count Pickering and Marquis Exeter and Sir Ecton as the only knights. Judicing by the small number of tables and seats at the feast, he wasn’t the only one with a small escort. Even if all the kings of Avryn were there, they were accompained only by the head of their fiefs, when usually it was an excuse to have sons and daughters together. And even the fiefs – only members of the Thirthy-Two families were there, not the minor nobles. And some knights: Alric recognized Sir Breckton, of course.
And there was Bishop Saldur, too, sitting at the place of honor. Count Pickering was fast to block Alric’s path before he had the insane idea of going talk – or better scream – accusation at him, when he only had his sister’s words against him.
When all of them were seated at their place, before the food was served, Ethereld stood up. The silence became even more steady at his gesture.
“Everyone, thank you for coming again at this Wintertide celebration.” His voice carried the strenght of command, but there was also something else, a carefulness on it. “This year, we have another reason, a better one, to celebrate the new year. As you all are informed, the Heir of Novron, the promised savior, has been found.” He gestured at a shy middle-age man sitting next to Saldur. “I’ll have Deacon Thomas, who witnessed the great gesture of Modina, daughter of Novron and Maribor!”
Too much theatrical for Alric, who scolded.
Deacon Thomas stood up while Ethelred sat down again. The man wasn’t used to speak to such a prestigious court, but his voice was secure, trained after so many preaches, and he had a glint in his eyes, the fervent convinction of his faith that he’d like for everyone to share and believe. Saldur, the snake he was, wasn’t never so fervent.
The story, although embellish by Deacon Thomas’ appreciation of it, wasn’t different from what Arista had told him. She hadn’t been there when Modina – or Thrace, as Arista’d called her, another proof of the ruse the Church was perpetrated – slay the beast, but she’d met everyone and her presence in Dahlgren at Modina’s side until she was dragged away in Aquesta had given her more knolowledge than most.
By the look in everyone, they also knew most of the tale. However, they appeared moved by the tale a lot more than Alric himself. That wrteched Ballentyne even dared to clap, pretending to wipe away a tear when Deacon Thomas ended his tale.
Ethereld adressed the crown again, while the Deacon sat down. “Our dear Modina can’t join us for the celebration, as defeating the beast took all of her energy.” Murmurs of disappointment, since no one had been able to see her in months. “But she regained enough strengh for her coronation at Wintertide.”
Coronation of what kingdom, Alric barely restrained himself to ask. Unaware, Ethereld gave him the answer.
“I’ve been waiting all this time for Novron to come back to us, and now she’s here. Warric will be her, under her command. I’m glady step back in her steady.” He gestured with his head at Saldur, who nodded.
“His Excellence the Patriarch will be there to crown her as the rightful Heir of Novron,” he explained. “For now, both I and Lanis Ethereld had been appointed as their regents until she will be healty enough to take her place as our Empress.”
Alric’s fury flared. The man had killed his father and now he was rewarded of a command because of a well-made ruse that everyone was so eager to believe.
“I know how all of you were waiting for this moment.” Saldur’s voice was saccarine, but not without a hint of a threat. “I hope all of you will be wise enough to offer Empress Modina Novronian the Empire that was once Novron’s.”
“And that’s it?” This time, Alric didn’t restrain himself. He stood up before Count Pickering could stop him, almost throwing the chair in his movement. “This woman arrives and claims to be the Heir and we’re supposed to give us our Kingdom – the Kingdom our ancestor had fought and died for?”
A cold silence followed this declaration. All eyes were on him, but there was only indifference in them, as his words were a minor occurence.
Then Ethereld spoke. “Yes.” It was simple as that. “I am a firm believer that Modina Novronian, daughter of god Maribor, will bring us to a new age of peace and prosperity. I am glad and honored to give her everything is hers to claim.”
That was absurd, considering Ethereld had been a warmonger in the past, and a good general, happy to fight for his land. But he was about to be nominated regent of an Empire, so despite his blabbering about religion and faith, that was a political move. But the others?
Alric turned to his fellow kings. Armand of Alburn was a newly appointed king of a minor family, not even a member of the Thrity-Two House, so his minor attachment to the kingdom could be explained. Frederik of Glamennadon was a weak man in a very harsh kindgom, so no wonder he didn’t want to fight, but the others? Utrich of Rhenydd was a monarchis, as Alric’s father had been, and Viktor of Maranor reigned over one of the richer and ancient land of Avryn. And XXX of Dunmore? He’d fought a bloodshed war to steal those land from Alburn and Trent in the past and now he didn’t want them anymore?
“What about you? Your family has history, prestige, and take care of the lands since the Empire fell. You’re going to throw everything away?”
Again, silence. No one was there to back him up, even if they didn’t speak against him. It wasn’t necessary, as his complete isolation was enough to put him in a corner. Alric felt he was the only sane person around.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Alric, dear, please.” It was Saldur. “I know you’re young, and that brings rush decision with it. You have to see the big picture. Your father-”
“My father was a monarchist.” And you killed him for it.
“Yes, I am quite aware. But he’s death, and you’re not. Now, listen, the Heir of Novron is the rightful rule of Avryn. You all are here just to take care of it until the return. Now she’s here. You may feel it is unfair, but if you stop to think for a second-”
“Don’t you dare.” Alric was tired to have Saldur speka like that, as if he didn’t know anything. “And it’s King Alric for you.”
He sat down again, with such strengh that the chair’s legs banghed on the stone floor. No one spoke until Ethereld called for the meal to be served, and then hushed conversation began, softer and smaller than usual, and everyone was very careful not to talk about what had just happened.
“If my father would have been here,” Samuel Exeter said, “he would have drawn blood.” Simon Exeter had hated the Imperialist with a burning passion and hadn’t hid it.
It was a sympathetic way to support Alric, who was too angry to appreciate it. He didn’t want to watch Count Pickering or Sir Ecton’s unconvinced expression, even if they hadn’t commented on his outbust, so he focused on the plates in front of him, stabbing the food with the fork as it personally offended him.
And after dinner, instead of remaining for the dance and the usually political talk with other kings and nobles, decided to strut back to his room before he insulted or get insulted further, leaving Count Pickering behind to assess the situation and then report back the crown humor to me.
Alric hated that Mauvin wasn’t there with him, but he couldn’t be helped. Almost no one had brought their Heir with them, and Mauvin was still recovery, even if only mentally, from Fanen’s death and his own wounds. Yet, Alric felt naked: Mauvin would have been on his side, not as one of his noble but as his friend. Alric could have vented with him without being judge, without expecting good advices.
Marquis Viktor Lanaklin and Marquis Bernum intercepted him in the hallway behind the ballroom, as they had wanted to ambush him. But out of every noble from other kingdom, he knew them the best, because of the relationship between the Lanaklins and the Pickerings and because Bernum’s daughter was Samuel’s wife.
“We completely agree with you, Your Majesty,” Lanaklin said. “This entire story is insanity.”
“Ethereld didn’t even ask us of any member of his court,” Bermun added. “He only speaks with the church. Bah! I’ve no fought for that. I absolutely refused to recognize this woman we even’t ever seen as our betters.”
Alric felt some kind of relief at the idea that he wasn’t the only one to think that. However, he would have preferred if they would have spoken at the feast instead of giving everyone the idea that he was out of his mind.
“We are ready to support you against Ethereld’s orders. After all,” Bermun grinned, “he isn’t our king anymore.”
Lanaklin was less assured. “We don’t know if they will attempt something. Better be ready.”
There was an implied warned and request over there, the idea that Alric also needed to suppurt them in their indipendence clam if the situation arose. And the fact that this New Empire might take with force what couldn’t take with faith and convinction.
Alric nodded in agreement. He didn’t need his council’s opinion, as he’d already made his mind clear in the past months about Melengar’s future. If the Empire wanted his kingdom, he would have to fight for them.
“Excuses us.” They had nothing more to say to him. “We need to mantain appearance. And maybe find out some others.”
He watched the mas they entered in the ballroom again. In that moment, Utrich came out, followed by a couple of his knights. He and Alric shared a look, but he didn’t stop to talk with him. He only whispered, as he passed, “An advice: even when you’re right, it’s better learn when to remain silent.”
Again, a confirmation that Alric wasn’t alone in his conviction. And Urich was a monarchist, as he’d thought. And yet, they had let him alone in that room.
Alric welcomed the Deacon in his throne room, with all the insigne of his position: the golden crown, the fur mantle, one of his best attire. It was part of his role, even if recently he hadn’t attended many audience in that room. Even people in Melengar didn’t have much to say to their king, as they perceived that the air around had changed. Another thing Alric had despised back then and now lounged.
The Deacon was exactly as Alric remembered him from Wintertide, with that energy and that glint in his eyes despite his middle-age, something that came because of a blind faith. He was a little bit thinner, thought, which gave Alric the impression he hadn’t indulge in Warric Count’s pleasures.
“I am unaware of the etiquette of the New Empire.” Alric’s voice resounded in the empty room. “But here in Melengar it is customary to kneel in front of the King.”
However, he gestured at the two guards at the Deacon’s sides to remain standing. He didn’t want to force the man, just seeing his reaction.
The Deacon bowed his head. “I mean no disrespect, King Alric, but I can’t kneel to no one but Empress Modina. She is the daughter of a God.”
It had to be expected, still it enraged Alric. “So you say.”
“I am the living testimony of her power.” The Deacon seemed more happy for the opportunity to speak about her than upset at Alric’s untrustiest. “If you allow me-”
“I already know the story. I was at Wintertide and my sister was in Dahlgren.”
That made the Deacon posed for a second, as he elaborated the information. The last events hadn’t contribute to improve Arista’s reputation, especially about her being a witch. Alric had some reports about voices turning around, so now the fact that she’d met Modina was in the best case cancelled, in the worst turned in a cautionary tale about her presence hiding malicious intent.
“Tell me what you want.” Alric didn’t let him the time to conclude his thoughts.
“I am not a politician.” Deacon Thomas licked his lips. “I am a believer. It was truly a miracle that I witnessed Novron’s daughter glory. I am not interested in kingdoms or empires, only in her as she is the promised savior. I felt it is my duty to bring words about it everywhere.”
Alric wore a bored expression. “You already did.”
Deacon Thomas’ eyes wandered. “I was entrusted with the task to spread the word about the Empress to everyone, including commoners. I already preached in Warric, Ghent and Rhenydd. The regents suggested me that your kingdom would benefit-”
“Saldur is one of the regent, is he not?” Alric barely restrained himself to shout. “Are you aware that he is responsible of my father’s death?”
“I was not.” However, the Deacon wasn’t shattered by the new information. “Like I said, I don’t care about politics. I only care about the fact that, finally, the promised Heir of Novron is among us. I have to inform everyone.”
Alric’s breath increased, following the surge of his rage. That man had the gut to come to him speaking of truth, and faith, and promises of a new golden age when his father’s traitor sat on a throne together with his precious empress which, if Arista was right, wasn’t even the real heir. The Deacon could babbler as he wished it wasn’t politic, but it actually was.
The words were harsh in his mouth as he tried to speak calmly. “Do you know Tolin Essendon’s story?”
“I do. It was the founder of this kingdom.”
“Exactly. He fought and won against Trent.” Alric remembered how proud of that heritage his father had been. “Tell me, Deacon, where was Novron back then, when Tolin’s people died to create Melengar? Where was Novron, when Bishop Saldur of the Nyphron Church conspired in my father’s murder? Where was Novron, when the seret killed Fanen Pickering?”
Again, the Deacon’s beliefs didn’t faltered. “Men can’t be arrogant to understand Novron’s reasons. But if he sent his daughter now-”
Alric stood up. “Melengar owes Novron nothing. I owes your Empress nothing. And no one – no one will come to Melengar’s soil to preach in their favors as long as I have breath in my lungs.” He lift his hand and the two guards immediately moved.
“King Alric, I beg you to reconsider it.”
“Escort the Deacon out and be assured that he and his escort departed within the day.”
Although the guards grabbed him by both arms and dragged him away, Deacon Thomas continued his sermon, not suppliant, but in a patronizing way, as he was talking to a child. “You may have been wronged by other men. You have reason to be angry. But please, think about your people. They deserve salvation. They deserve to know about Novron’s Daughter. You deny them…”
The heavy doorS of the Throne Room closed, cutting out the Deacon’s voice. In the silence and solitude, Alric slumped down on the first step of his throne. Evaporated the rage, only tiredness remained.
The first months after the Dahlgren’s accident didn’t bring many chances. Nobody had yet see the supposed Heir of Novron, and nobody had done more than talk about what was going to happen. Cossipondences and trades between kingdoms continued regularly and borders were opened.
As much as Alric wished to have a face to face with Saldur – the man, however, was very carefully to remain far from Medford – he hadn’t reason yet to antagonize the Church of Nyphron, as they hadn’t made any move against Melengar.
So, when a group of five seret knights, disarmed but with their red and black uniform, presented themselves at Alric’s daily audience in his throne room, he was wary but not particulary irritated in their regards. If a sentinel would have been with them – a particular one – then it would have been a different matter.
They waited their turn in silence composture, then marched in uninson as Julian called for them since they were next in line. They bent their knee, as it was customary, but only briefly, to point out that it was a politely gesture but their loyalty was elsewhere.
“State your petition,” Alric said. He’d been there since early morning and the golden crowd was heavy on his head. “The Patriarch has a request for me?”
“Yes, by orders of Sentinel Luis Guy Seret.” That name created a surge of bile in Alric’s throat, but the seret didn’t seem to notice it. “We are here to take Mauvin Pickering in custody so he can face judgement for killing a seret knight.”
Alric stared at him, paralized. He knew that, by the Church’s rules, attacking a seret was a death penalty offence, the reason why Arista’d sent Mauvin away with Royce and Hadrian in their way back. However, he’d believed that the Church had other things to attend to and that they wouldn’t have the courage to come and ask for something like that.
The seret didn’t notice his bewilderment. “We are aware that he seeks refuge in Drondil Fields with his family. We request you assert your authority over your nobles to resolve this question. No one is above the Church’s law.”
In the enourmous space of the throne room, people in waiting had stop talked to observe the situation. The sight of seret knights were unusual, and their request even more. But everyone knew that the seret’s authority was superior to kingdoms’ border as they obeyed only to the Patriarch.
Alric was aware of the public, which gave him the small opportunity to breath before answering.
“I’ll let you take Mauvin,” he murmured, slowly, weightening every word, “the day you deliver me Luis Guy Seret so he can face my judgement for the murder of Fanen Pickering.”
The seret knights were taken aback that an answer they didn’t expect, but they were fast to recover. It gave Alric the indication they expected a refusal, maybe they also wanted it as an excuse to attack Melengar, in one way or another.
Alric didn’t care. They’d killed Fanen. Almost killed Mauvin. They shouldn’t have used this to get in his kingdom.
“If you refuse to listen to the Patriarch’s request, we will report back to Sentinel Luis Guy about it. I twill be seen as an act against the Church.”
“No.” Alric stood out, and was grateful for the seven steps to the throne that made him towering despite his short heigh. “You made an act against one of my men. You were the one in my kingdom, right now, pretending justice against a crime you perpetrate. You say I committed an act against the church? Well, if you insist, I give you one.”
He turned his head to Jeremy, who, as the Captain of the Guard, was in charge of the securiti of the throne room. With him, some of his best soldiers, that monitorez the passage of subjects for the audience. At Alric’s gesture, they gathered around their captain.
It put the seret knight on guard: they weren’t armed, and right now they were in a foreign kingdom with no back-ups. If they were captured, or killed, the news would spread, but it would do little to them. However, they didn’t change their attitude.
“Captain, escort them out and be assured that they leave the kingdom for good.” Alric turned to face the seret again. “By royal decree, starting from today, no members of the Nyphron Church is welcomed here. No priests, no bishops and certainly no seret!”
How dare they ordered him as he wasn’t the king? They wouldn’t touch Mauvin. He wouldn’t allow it.
The first act of war, and it hadn’t been made by the New Empire or the Church. Alric felt better about it, and he could relaxed again once the red and blakc uniform disappeared behind the door, dragged away by his soldiers.
The buzzing of people had started again, after the commotion. If it was positive or negative, Alric couldn’t say. But he had to inform Count Pickering immediately of the question and about his new decree, in case the Church made some other attempt. He was sure they would be even more adamant than him in protecting Mauvin.
“Audience is over for today.”
The turmoil outside brought Alric to leave open the windows of his leaving room. From the safety of his personal wing, he noticed smoke, grey and swirling, from the North-East part of Medford, the area of Gentry Quartier.
“A fire?” he wondered.
It wasn’t an unusual sight, but it was more common from the Artisan Quartier, where the workshop worked with flames, or the Merchant Quartier, because of the large storages. The muffled screamed appeared angrier than scared.
Then Alric saw a city guard running through the gate. Jeremy was already there to welcome him, as around him soldiers and attendants gathered with uncertain curiosity. A second later, Jeremy ordered the gates closed and that was Alric’s push to move.
He intercepted Jeremy on his way to the square, clearly coming to look for him. Alric hadn’t never seen him so frantic, not even when Alric had announced the possibility of a war.
“Your Majesty, I need you to remain inside, safe.”
Cold fear froze his spine. “What’s happening?”
Jeremy was conflicted by his necessity to protect the king and the fact that the king himself should be the one giving orders. “A revolt broke out. People are assaulting building in Gentry Quartier, but the mob is organizing itself. They are on the move.”
Alric wasn’t sure to have understand. “A revolt? By whom?”
“Medford people. Mostly from the lower quartier, but information says that artisans might been among them too.”
“But… why?” Alric was suddenly brought back at his father’s death’s night, when people had spoken to him words he hadn’t been able to process in his mind.
“Deacon Thomas was screamed about the Empress while we escorted him away.” Jeremy was ashamed of it, and even a little bit worried about Alric’s reaction. “People understood you refused to let him speak and they aren’t happy about it.”
Jeremy was right about fearing Alric, because Alric was beyond fury now. His people – his own people – are protesting against a decision, siding himself with a foreign Empire made up of lies. Worse, they wanted to be feed those lies, ready to destroy their own city for them?
Alric run.
“Your Majesty, please…” Jeremy trotted behind him. “It may not be safe.”
“Well, call for my bodyguard. I appointed one, hadn’t I?”
To be honest, Alric hadn’t seen Mauvin recently. His appointed as the king’s bodyguard had been a formality more than anything, a way to give Mauvin something to be distracted with, because for the moment Alric hadn’t been in need of protection.
On normal day, they would have joked about it. But nothing was normal since Fanen’s death, at the point that Alric wondered if he hadn’t dream the days Mauvin smiled. The days Mauvin kissed him, calling him ‘his king’ when now weren’t even there to defend him.
Unaware of his soldiers’ protest, Alric reached the walkway of the castle walls, the one above the gate that connected the square to Gentry Quartier. Then, he saw it.
It was a thigh crowd of screaming, enraged people, a river of faces moving together in a wave. Alric saw the fire, the destruction they left behind him, the way they screamed and enchanted, made-up weapons in their hands. The yells formed coherent words as they advanced.
“Death to the godless king! Death to the godless king!”
It was him. They were talking about him!
His people – the same people that had revolted against Braga and cheered for him as he’d ride back to Medford now wanted him dead. And because of a girl they hadn’t even seen but apparently she was their savior.
Alric felt his entire body tremble and he couldn’t afford it. King didn’t show weakness, that was his father’s mantra. He pressed the palm of his hands down, hard, on the walls’ stones, the crumple surface scratched his skin.
Someone in the mass had created a puppet made of stray, pressed it a piece of paper and then put it on fire. As the paper crumbled and turned into dust, Alric recognized it as one of the poster for the Crown Conspiracy play, the one with his face on it.
“You can’t stay here, Alric. We don’t know if any of them have bows, and they seem revved up enough to try.”
It was a Pickering, only not the right one. Jeremy had liked called for the Count, or maybe the Count was searching for him, giving the dangerous situation. Either way, it was there, gesturing at Alric to move away from the parapet: even without his crown, Alric was enough recognizable from distance.
Alric looked at him, realizing he couldn’t act like an afraid children in front of his Lord Chancellor and most trusted noble, even if it was Count Pickering, his father’s best friend.
“What’s your idea for taking care of this… situation?”
Count Pickering throw a side-way look to the crowd: they were almost at the gates now, still screaming “Death to the godless king!” as it was a prayer.
“The city guard can’t hold them. Didn’t hold them. And even if they can’t penetrate in the castle, they may risk the entire city. We should send the army.”
Alric ducked his head to Jeremy. “So be it.”
In the past, he had faced an impending death, rushing to the city walls in order to spare his people by killing each other over Braga’s conspiracy. That day, he didn’t remain to see his soldiers scattered that same people he swore to defend.
It was a pityful sight, even after recovered. The burn had scarred most of his face, turning him into a horrific red mask, without an ear and without most of his hair.
Alric couldn’t restrain himself from flinching in disgust and, as much as he tried to conceal it after, Hilfred saw it as he lifted his gaze. However, as he was used to, he didn’t comment.
“It wasn’t necessary for you to come here, Your Majesty,” he said instead. “You’re probably too busy to the like of me.”
“Nonsense.” Alric waved his hand in the air. The nurses took it as a command, so they left, leaving the two of them alone. “Of course I want to see you back healty.”
While Fanen had died, Hilfred and Mauvin were only wounded, but badly, Hilfred even worse than Mauvin. Having them back was refreshing for Alric, gave him the idea of a return to normalcy, when he was fully aware that things would never be the same.
“And your service will soon be required,” Alric continued, pacing in the nursery room. “We don’t have nothing official, mind you, but it is entirely possible that will face some conflics with other kingdoms. Arista is still the ambassador, and her presence may be required elsewhere. For now she won’t move so you can-”
“I have a request.”
Alric posed, surprised. He and Hilfred knew each other since they had been kids, but Hilfred had always showed so much respect for his betters than the suddend interruption was a novelty. Alric nodded at him to continue.
“I’d like to be esonerate from her Highness’ service. I… want to leave.”
Still sitting down on his bed, Hilfred looked at his interwined hands. Alric ihnaled deeply, then hold his breath, unable to process the information.
“I…” Arista’d told him briefly what happened with Hilfred, how she’d felt guilty that her order had obbligated him to stay inside when the beast had attacked. “If it’s about Dahlgren, I can assure you nor I neither Arista were unsatisfied with your work. You know Arista, she’s prick sometimes, but she’ll get along.”
A pained expression appeared on Hilfred face, before he shook his head. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“If there is anything I can do… I can increase your pay. I can give you lands.”
“You know why your father gave me the role of her Highness’ bodyguard.”
Alric knew. He doubted anyone in the castle wasn’t aware of the fact Hilfred was in love with Arista, which made him the perfect bodyguard. The reason Hilfred’s desire to leave was so shocking. Arista was the only one completely oblivious of it, which, Alric imagine, could be problematic at least. If he would have been in Hilfred’s place, Alric would have snapped at her during the first days. She had been pretty intorelable as a teenager.
“Please.” Hilfred moved slowly, his sore muscle still recovering from the long stop. He kneeld in front of Alric, head down, hands on his legs. “I can’t do this anymore… If I ever serve your family well, please grant me this.”
“What are you plan to do?”
“I… don’t know. But I can’t stay here.”
A sudden, peregrine thought came to Alric’s mind. After all, Hilfred’s father had conspired to kill the royal family and effectively succed in killing Alric’s mother and almost Arista, if not for Hilfred’s intervention. Saldur could have been behind that first attack too, and he definitely had know Hilfred senior.
“Will you go to fight for this new Empire?”
“No!” It was a plea, eyes shocked. “I will never drew my sword against her Highness- against his kingdom. I swear on…” His voice trailed down, as he didn’t know to possess something enough worth to risk.
And Alric believed him. He wondered what his father would have done, in his place, as he’d been the one to use Hilfred’s love against him. Alric decided he won’t do the same.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay with a new role? I can have you back at the Guard.”
“I can’t serve anyone else.”
In his mind, he thought about Mauvin. Even if their situation was foundamenatlly different, as Mauvin was one of his peers, he was also his defender, always ready to reiterate how Alric was his king, since they were children. Alric couldn’t image a world without him at his side.
They wouldn’t be together, however. If the situation would become too painful for Mauvin, would Alric be able to let him go? But it was also true that Mauvin’s reciprocicated his feelings, even if any of them had dared to talk about it. Arista didn’t.
He nodded. “I grant you permission to leave.”
Sir Ecton and Jeremy brought their report to Alric in the Council Room, even if only Count Pickering was there with him. It wasn’t council day, but Alric felt it was time to summon an emergecy one, giving the situation.
“Medford is under control again.” Jeremy remained standing at the doorstep, rigid, as he felt the revolt could restart at any second. Instead, Sir Ecton moved at Count Pickering’s side. “Most of the crowd dispersed when they saw the army, but we had to subdue some of the most insistent.”
There had been some casualities, and a less number of wounded than Alric expected. Gentry Quartier took most of the damages, when the revolutionaries put the shops on fire, but it had been contained before it spreaded in other areas of the city. Alric gritted his teeth: with the necessity of preparing an army, it wasn’t the time for unattended expence.
“We rounded up the rebels, but we took in custody only six of them.” Jeremy’s eyes switched to Sir Ecton, who nodded.
“I felt it was useless to fill up the castle’s cells. The six one were identified as the most adamant, and the instigator of the resistance.” Sir Ecton watched Alric, but he talked to Count Pickering. “But, if His Majesty considers necessary we have the means to arrest the others too.”
Count Pickering observed Alric, who had a dark expression focused on the empty table in front of him. “I think our priority should be assess back the authority over the people.”
There was more in that sentence than it was said. Alric eyed the Count, reading between the lines. A revolt against the king wasn’t something they could pass over. Teatrening the king’s death was straight-up treason, with only one consequence: death.
Alric wasn’t soft enough to restrain from execution orders, and he’d done that in the past. However, this was a different matter. It hadn’t been a direct murder, as it had been with his father, nor a quest for power like with Braga. His people were angry at him and he wondered if executing some of them would worsened thing. But, fo course, showing lenience could be seen as weakness and Alric couldn’t afford that either.
His mood switched back and forth from fury and sorrow. Hasn’t he been fair and just, since he’d became king? The harvest had been good, nobody had suffered famine during the winter, and spring prospected being good as well. Alric had used his personal funds to offer the commoners feast for the Autumn Gala and Wintertide and planned to do the same for his upcoming birthday. Sure the trade had slowed down, but that was Warric’s fault, not his.
And then the refusal of letting a priest spreading lies demanoed all his works. It didn’t make sense and was just unfair. Alric didn’t know how to remedy it. He wondered how his father would act. He remembered that, after his mother’s death, his father had almost killed Saldur in a fit of rage. Now Alric wished he’d done that, it would have solve some problems.
He knew what he had to do. He turned to Jeremy.
“Tomorrow morning, have all them pubblic flogging. Divided them in all Medford’s squares, so no one will miss that.” He stopped a second, when Count Pickering raised an eyebrow. “Fifty slashes each.” It was like a death sentence, and they knew it. “If they survive, let them in display all day and then let them free.”
Jeremy nodded, with a bow. Sir Ecton didn’t move until Count Pickering ducked his head.
Taking advantage of the pause, Alric added, “And make sure everyone knows that it is the punishment for anyone that dares keep the cult of Novron in my kingdom.” Then, to the Count, “Do you think we should decide for a curfey too?”
Count Pickering pondered it. “No, I don’t think it’s necessary for now.” He shot a look to Sir Ecton. “Let’s monitoring the situation for now, and see if it’s definitley under control before imposing new rules.”
Alric nodded, so Captain Jeremy and Sir Ecton left.
Despite the presence of Count Pickering, Alric let himself loosing a little, with a heavy sigh, and closed his eyes. Again, he wondered what his father would have done in his steady. Surely he wouldn’t have bent the knee to the Empire, after advocating for monarchs indipendence. But perharps he would have been a little bit diplomatic with the priests.
Or he would have listened to advisors. Count Pickering had been the one stopping him from killing Saldur, after all. Alric turned to the man, who wore an unreadable expression, the one he had during fencing matches.
“At this point, I can’t call back Deacon Thomas. It would be seen as a retreat for my part.”
Count Pickering was surprised by the suddend output. He looked at Alric, expecting him to say something else, then turned away, at the windows. “The preach was an excuse. They want power over Melengar, with all the consequences.”
Even if he hadn’t said out loud, Alric understood what he meant. Which brought Alric to his next line of thoughts.
“Have you found Mauvin?”
The Count shook his head.
Mauvin hadn’t be seen, despite the chaos that had busted out because of the revolt. Alric was too tired to be angry, but Mauvin should have been there, assessing the situation. Instead, he was hiding somewhere to avoid any complication. He’d been like that for a while. At first the hiding places had been predicatably, allowing attendants to spot him easily, but he’d become sneakier.
“He’ll appear for dinner.”
Alric wasn’t sure he had the stomach to eat. He stood up. “I’m going to write down some letters at the coucil members.”
“You shouldn’t be alone. Not after today.”
Count Pickering didn’t speak out loud, but his thoughts were simple: if commoners revolted because of their faith, it wouldn’t be impossible for some of the palace staff being in agreement with them. Threatening outside the castle walls had less risk than being alone and unarmed when someone was in your same space and could harm you.
Alric refused to be scared in his own house. “I suppose to have a bodyguard.”
It was somehow strange to see Count Pickering so lenient regarding his heir’s misconduction. In the past, Mauvin’s education had been stricter than Alric’s, with subsequentially more punishments. It didn’t stop Mauvin to be a pest, yet they were the testimony of the Pickerings’ pride and honor to be the most loyal and capable servant of the royal family.
That day, the Count didn’t seem inclined to scold his son for disappearing in a moment of risk. His expression was sour, resigned at Mauvin’s isolation and sulking. Alric tried to understand him: he’d lost a son and the other had taken the blow in the worst way. He probably didn’t want to press someone that was already in mourning, fearing to do more damage.
Alric was mourning Fanen too. He was his brother, if not by blood. But king couldn’t indulge in sorrow more than he already had, and his feeling already brought the kingdom over disaster. What he wanted was to shake Mauvin over it, if the Count wouldn’t.
“He’ll get along. With time.”
“I hope so.” It came out harsh.
When Alric left the council room, he gestured at a soldier to come with him.
“Guard up! Shield down! On the right!”
The heavy iron blade rattled against the shield. Alric felt his arm trembling because of the hit and gritted his teeth, trying not to lose his balance or backing off. Tibby, put in charge of the lesson by Captain Jeremy, went for another lunge, which Alric parried, this time with his sword.
“Very well, Your Majesty.” Tibby brushed the sweat out of his forehead with the back of his hand. “Your reflexs are sharpening.”
Alric made an unconvincing snort, as he felt his entire body suffering for the heavy training. He’d always hated it, and as a child he’d avoided it as much as possible. His uncle, someone Alric didn’t like to think about, had taught him the basic, but no more than that-
It couldn’t be helped, though. If there was a war waiting for him, Alric expected to partecipate during the battles, like he’d done for the Battle of Medford. He needed to be prepared. It was also good for improving his army’s humor and loyalty: they still remembered his run towards the city’s gates and the fact he was training was appreciated.
Tibby was a good teacher, but not the best swordsman out there. Alric couldn’t ask either Count Pickering or Sir Ecton to teach him. And he needed to keep his nobles on the positive side, so he wouldn’t ask them for help, not even Samuel Exeter.
“Your Majesty.” Julian Tempest appeared on the doorstep of the armory training area. “Count Pickering and his son are here. I’ll have them wait in your studio.”
Mauvin! He could become Alric’s teacher from now on. He was a good one, even if Alric expected from him to be playful, and trutting about his superior style. It was obvious. And true. But Alric could endure it, if it meant having his best friend there.
“Thank you, Julian, tell them I’ll be there soon.” Then, to Tibby, “Let’s call the day for now.”
A quick cleaning and a change of dress and Alric went to this office. Count Pickering sat down at the armchair near the fireplace, comfortable as he was in his home, and gestured at Alric with a nod of his head. Mauvin, instead, stood still at the center of the room. He lifted his eyes a little at Alric’s entrance, but the greeting was so low Alric almost missed it.
“Your Majesty.”
Surprised, Alric stopped. Usually, when they saw each other, especially if a long time had passed, Mauvin wasn’t thrifty of public display of affections. Even if his father’s presence would have impede him to exagerated, at least he would have smiled.
Alric hadn’t seen Mauvin since Fanen’s funeral. In that period, he was still recovering from his own wound, so Alric hadn’t pressed the issue. The pain for Fanen’s death was fresh in Alric’s mind too, and Mauvin’s utterly defeated behavior was to be expected. Despite Count Pikcering’s comments about his elder son’s humor – one of the reason he’d advocated for Alric to nominate him as his bodyguard – Alric wasn’t prepared for the display in front of him.
Mauvin still wore the black clothes of mourning, and had no sword at his belt, when he almost used to go to sleep with it. He didn’t smile, neither with his mouth or eyes, which tried to keep lower as possible. Dark circles were around them, shoulder dipped down.
For a second, Alric forgot about everything, his imagination about the rest of the day divided between sword training and cuddling crashing down. He’d enough to take care as a king, he’d hoped at least to have Mauvin to make his mind at rest.
Count Pickering, feeling the coldness of the room, stood up. “I’ll leave the organization to you two.”
Mauvin nodded at his father, just barely. Once he was outside the room, Alric walked to be in front of Mauvin, who still hadn’t moved from his position. Because of it, it was Alric that lifted his hands, brushing slowly Mauvin’s arms until he could interwined his fingers with the other’s.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
Mauvin accepted the gesture passively, still not looking at him. “I disagree with your decision to make me your bodyguard.”
“Why?”
The restrained sob was clearly in the way Mauvin swallowed, his adam’s nibble bouncing. “I can’t lose another brother.”
Alric inhaled sharply, but didn’t let him go. Mauvin had always be his protector, since they were children. Alric’d never fear anything when they were together, even if they’d escaped unattended from the palace. The ghost of Fanen, most of the time with them during their escapades, was tangible with them in the room.
What happened with the seret came from second hand tales, because Mauvin’d refused to talk about him with Alric. However, Alric didn’t fell less safe only because that had happened, and didn’t blame Mauvin for it.
Observing at his pale face, the beautiful sharp features covered by the messy hair, the long eyeslashed that covered the black deep eyes, Alric wanted to caress it, and wanted Mauvin to hold him and tell him everything would be alright. This Mauvin didn’t seem capable to do so.
“I need you here,” he only said, tightening the grip on Mauvin’s hand. “Just your presence, for comfort. Can you do that?”
Without looking at him, Mauvin nodded.
Alric hadn’t eaten at dinner. He wasn’t hungry. The smell coming from the tray Tilly had brought in his private room only increased his nausea. From there, he could still see some smoke coming from Gentry Quartier, a reminder that just didn’t go away.
To distract himself, he focused his gaze on Tilly’s expert movement as she undressed him. It was such a ordinary action that he never occur to him the way she did it, how her hands unbottoned the doublet or how she let the tunic slid from his shoulder. She never looked at him, not even once.
Chosing her to be his favorite chambermaid had been for Alric a sort of compensation for the years of service, and also because he trusted her when naked. She had been grateful of the honor, or so he’d thought, and she hadn’t denied him sex when he’d felt like that. They hadn’t been together for a while, no since Fanen’s death. He wasn’t in the amorous mood.
Things could change. Things had changed.
“Do you worship Novron, Tilly?”
She halted, surprised by the question. She still didn’t look at him. “Like everyone else, Sire.”
Alric realized he knew little about her except for some of her quirks. She had a family, of course, sisters and brothers, he was sure of it.
“Like the people out there today?”
This time, she looked at him, her eyes wide in horror. “I have nothing to do with them. I swear on Maribor. Your Majesty, if someone tell you differently-”
“No, I have no complain.” Alric shuffled: the question had let Tilly’s work blocked, and now his shirt hang fastidiously over his shoulder. She hurried to take it off. “But I do wonder if you don’t share their belief. Maybe you also would prefer serving the Heir of Novron.”
Why not? He’d believed his people to agree with him, to want Melengar to remain indipendet from the Enpire, just like his nobles had approved when he’d announced it at the council. That day he was proved wrong, so it wasn’t far-fetched to fear that similar feelings were sharing inside his own castle.
“Maybe you hate me all this time.”
“No! Your Majesty, that’s… What happened today was terrible. I hate them, not you! You’ve been kind to me and I-”
Alric stopped her with his hand. “Of course. Of course.”
He shouldn’t have asked. What could she answer, than her loyalty, when she was in his castle, at his mercy? If she confessed any form of infedelity, he could have her removed, or whipped, or even executed. Even if they were alone, Tilly was probably one of the few people around that couldn’t overpowered him. He wouldn’t get sincerity out of her.
Despite being still half-dressed, Alric gestured at the door.
“You may go.”
Tilly’s eyes were watery, her face pale, her lips trembled. But before she spoke, the door opened and Mauvin, dressed completely in black, appeared. Neither of them had heard his arrival, so they both flinched in surprise. To Alric, he turned sooner in annoyance, while Tilly took it as a signal to go. She didn’t even grabbed the clothes to put them in the wardrobe, as she dashed out of the room, almost running into Mauvin in the process, as she kept her head bowen.
Mauvin watched her walking away with a unconvinced expression, before closing the door. “You shouldn’t ask her things that put her in a difficult position.”
The slap wasn’t planned. It came out naturally, the sound of the palm slamming against Mauvin’s cheek.
In all those years of friendship and more, Alric had never hit Mauvin. They’d fought, as children, sure, and they had had disagreement over things. And yet, here it was, the red sign of the hand on the fair skin, the small sign of a red scratch where the seal ring had struck.
Mauvin was right, of course. Asking Tilly about her loyalty had been a foul move from Alric’s part, since he had no reason to doubt her, not after so many years of service. Alric didn’t care: he was beyond fury, the fact that Mauvin hadn’t been with him when he’d needed him the most and now had the guts to come only for complain about Alric’s behaviour.
Mauvin accepted the slap with grace. His expression didn’t change, nor her lifted his hand to touch the wounded part. His gaze was lower, at his shoes, arms hangling freely at his side, shoulders dipped down. It was the new Mauvin, the one all gloomy that made Alric wonder if he’d imagine Mauvin’s smile in the past, because the man in front of him seemed incapable of any expression.
“Where have you been?” Alric lowered the hand that had struck. “You’re my bodyguard. Maybe you don’t notice I needed you today? Answer me!”
“Everything was under control.” A whisper.
Alric wanted to scream. To hit him again. Nothing was under control. But even if it was, Mauvin should have been there. Out of everyone, out of the nobles, the soldiers and even Tilly, Mauvin was the only one Alric didn’t doubt when it came to loyalty.
Mauvin was his best friend. His brother. His lover. He should have been there to support. Alric wouldn’t have asked anything from him other than his presence, reassuring. With Arista away for her diplomatic mission, and Hilfred gone, and Fanen dead, Mauvin was the only one left.
“I needed you and you. Weren’t. There.”
If Mauvin wanted to apologize, he didn’t have the strengh to do so. He remained standing there, facing Alric’s fury like an oak tree faced a tempest. If it would be eradicated, so be it. Alric hated it.
At first, he’d like Mauvin’s presence to be comforting. Even if none of them were in the mood of enjoying sex marathon, Alric would have been content with a hug, or some cuddle, or even a little kiss on the cheeks on the forehead. Something simple, to remind him that despite the angry mob, he was still loved.
Now he wanted Mauvin to fight back, to scream back at him, to defend himself, to do something other than standing there like a ghost.
But Mauvin did neither, just observing Alric from below, his head still down.
That patethic man in front of him wasn’t his friend. Alric could barely stand the sight of him.
“Get out.”
Without a word, Mauvin obeyed. He even seemed relieved when he closed the door behind him.
Alric waited for the steps to disappear in the silence of the royal wing before collapsing on the bed, ignoring that he was still half-dressed and that the remaining clothes, including the fur mantle, were abandoned in the nearby chair, and that the fireplace needed to be revived.
Now that he was alone, he could stop pretending to be strong. The tremors caused by the fear of the revolt returned and he abandoned to it, letting a sob of horror erupting from his throat.
And alone he was, not only physically. People in his life were either dead, or away, for one reason and another. And the only one there didn’t even want to touch him. He was completely, utterly alone.
Alric sunk his head in the pillow and cried. -
.
Since Locke didn’t need him with Mister Linch, Jean wandered around the city to find more information about Riyria. The actors couldn’t tell him more about them than they’d said the night before, so he decided to sneak something off the palace’s guards: even if they were unable to catch the thief that’d escaped the room, they should have seen something recognizable out of him that confirmed Jean they, indeed, stepped into Riyria.
Moreover, from the previous night’s interrogation, he’d overheard the guards talking about a drunken who had distracted them: Jean was sure he was an accomplice of the thief, because such a diversion was something the Gentlemen Bastard would have done, even if in a refined manner. And Riyria was composed of two people.
The Nameless One was on his side that day, because, as he turned the corner, he noticed soldiers kicking out a man from their quartiers in a very vocal manner, despite the man trying to apologize to them. Obvious, they were angry at him because his attics had sidetracked them from a robbery, which hadn’t looked good in the eyes of their employer.
Jean observed the man from his hidden corner.
He remained to stand in front of the door for a while, hoping for an opening, then shook his head. As he walked away, Jean noticed he had three swords – two on his belt and a gigantic one on his back.
Just like the thief of the play.
It couldn’t be a coincidence.
Even if he wasn’t at ease as he would on Camorr’s street, Jean followed the man through the crowded street of Vania, trying to be unsuspicious in his stalk. Locke’s plan didn’t consider outing Riyria or having them arrested, but he couldn’t be bad to be aware of their movements.
Jean was waiting for an occasion to observe better the man with the three swords, when he slowed down his steps. His attention had been attracted by a street fight between two thugs, with a tumbler as a host, collecting bets from the crowd around.
Before the three-swords-man could leave, Jean was at his side, throwing a handful of coins in one of the two bronze buckets that represent the fighters, the empty one. The gesture drew some stares: if no one would bet on that opponent, there was probably a reason.
“He’s going to win,” Jean commented, to no one in particular but hoping to lure his mark’s attention. “It seems he’s losing, but only because his opponent attacks more. Most of them went to nothing as he wears out.”
“Yeah, and he also had a poor balance,” three-swords-man added, after throwing a glance in Jean’s direction. He proceeded to add his own bet to Jean’s. “One hit well done and a kick on his leg will draw him on his knees.”
It happened exactly as he’d foreseen, with much disdain from the other present. Jean snorted inside himself: a con like that was incredibly common in Camorr, especially from gangs that worked for Barsavi. Let everyone believe in the winner only to have him lose in the end.
“If you’re so good,” the tumbler commented in their direction, “why don’t you give our audience a demonstration?”
“Actually, I am-” the three-swords-man tried to say, but the tumbler didn’t let him finish.
“We want to see something new, right? Who wants to see it? Please scream!” The crowd cheered him, as he clapped his hands to encourage the reaction.
Jean faked an apologetic smile, as the people started to push them. “Guess we hadn’t much choice,” he said, but he wasn’t annoyed at the half. He didn’t mind testing the other’s abilities in a safe environment.
When they both were on top of the small wooden platform that served as an arena, after the three-swords-man had abandoned his weapons, much to his disdain, the tumbler presented them to the public, inviting them to bet once more. It would probably keep part of that money.
The three-swords-man took off his shirt too, revealing a well-built torso crossed by some faded scars. Definitely, the body of a fighter, and he was a few inches taller than Jean. He was handsome, too, probably, over the layer of sloppiness and the unshaved beard. Definitely similar to how he was depicted in the tale, as the gorgeous blond swordsman thief.
“One, two, three, go!” the tumbler said, jumping out the platform.
The first attack from Jean was sloppy, made only to check on his opponent’s reflex. The punch passed next to the three-swords-man ad he dodged with a swift movement, before grabbing Jean’s wrist and jerking it down. Jean was fast to pivoting on his feet, unbalanced the other, then kicked him on the right knee. But the three-swords-man was fast to parry it with his own legs, even if he was forced to free Jean’s wrist, before taking a step backward.
“Can you please avoid my face?” he asked, with an amicable smile. “Girls like it.”
“A good reason to ruin it, then,” Jean replied.
The rest of their fight was like a dance, to the point that the crowd’s cheers from one or the other fell into a stunning silence. Jean’s specialty was fighting with the Sisters, but Don Maranzalla had taught him well about hand-to-hand combat, something that was extremely helpful during his teenage years in Camorr. Yet, he hadn’t seen anyone, not even Maranzalla, fight like the man in front of him.
Then, one of his punches reached his target: three-swords-man was too slow to parry him. Jean went for another hit, but was just a faint because, with the other hand, he grabbed the other’s wrist as he tried to dodge the punch. Then, using the arm as leverage, he placed his foot between the other’s legs and forc, forcing him to tumble on it.
The crowd roared as the three-swords-man was forced to the ground, head pressed against the wood and Jean’s keen pressing on his back.
“I can’t believe the glasses won!” one complained, something that made Jean snort. He couldn’t help to be born being born with bad eyesight, but he definitely didn’t mind being underestimated, if people didn’t see who they had in front.
He offered his hands to the three-swords-man, who accepted it with a smile. Jean pulled him standing again.
“I won, but at least your face is safe.”
“Small graces,” the three-swords-man commented, but he didn’t appear disappointed at all. “Thank you for that.”
Without another word, he recollected his blades and left the platform. Jean dodged the public that tried to convince him for another round, grabbed the money the tumbler was offering him, and flanked the three-swords-man again.
“Thank you for letting me win,” he said.
Jean had noticed the moment his hand had smashed against the other’s chest: his body hadn’t flinched at all, as he expected the hit and was focused not on dodging it, but on avoiding being hurt too much by it. He’d let Jean grab his wrists.
“If you think so, you may give me a percentage,” three-swords-man replied, with a soft smile that didn’t reveal anything of his thoughts. The man was tough.
“Why don’t you let me offer you a drink?”
Three-swords-man pondered the question. “You know a place here when the ale doesn’t taste like piss?”
“I can promise you a place where it doesn’t taste like hot piss.”
“Guess I have to settle for that.” Three-swords-man laughed. He offered his hand. “Hadrian Blackwater.”
“Jerome Valora.”
As Jean guided him towards the tavern, he wondered how deadly three-swords-man could be if allowed to actually use his blades, especially considering Jean’s own ability if allowed to use the Sisters. Jean missed his dear weapons.
But the more urgent matter was finding a way to explain to Locke that they had now a dangerous swordsman who was probably affiliated with Riyria and, reasonably, irritated with them for having ruined their robbery, in their inn.
And how to deal with him.
The ale smelled better than the one he’d tried before in Varia, yet Hadrian decided not to taste it until his host returned. Even if he’d observed the tavern’s owned, he couldn’t rule out the possibility of drugging, and he had his fair share of it. He also couldn’t rule out the possibility it was a trap and that Jerome hadn’t gone to his room to change but to call reinforcement.
A man able to see thought Hadrian’s trick to appear weaker didn’t need to be underestimated.
Of course, there was still the possibility that Jerome was who he affirmed to be, which Hadrian would have preferred because he kinda liked the man, even though they spoke only for their brief walking towards the tavern.
However, he trusted Royce’s eyesight enough to be suspicious, and the man appeared too similar to the description Royce had done of one of the two he’d seen inside Mister Lynch’s office.
Since Jerome was taking too much time to return, Hadrian decided to follow him. The tavern’s owner was busy with another customer, so Hadrian slipped swiftly towards the stairs to the upper floor. He found himself in a narrow hallway, with only a window at the end of it. Six closed doors, three for each side, peered out on it and no rumors came from them.
Hadrian walked with light steps, but the wooden floor creaked under his heavy weight. As he passed the first two doors, he placed both hands on the hilt of his swords, ready to draw them: fighting in such a narrow place wasn’t ideal, but at least he would be ready.
Still, no other rumors but his breath. He took another step and, this time, he heard whispers from the last door on the right side, just near the window.
Then, Royce’s voice resounded. “Come and join us.”
With an annoyed snort, Hadrian relaxed and trumped forwards.
When he opened the door, a strange scene appeared in front of him. Jerome was back against the wall, a pair of hatchets drolly in his hands, but not in a threatening way. The reason was clear: at the center of the small room, a man was wrapped up in ropes against a chair. Hadrian didn’t recognize him, but could imagine who he was.
And then there was Royce: he sat on another chair, his legs sloppily placed on his prisoner’s one, an arm around the other’s shoulders and Alverstone kept at his throat. Royce had an amiable smile on his face, which was making him more menacing.
Hadrian shook his head. As he closed the door, he commented, “I guess I won’t have that ale now.” Then, he gestured at Jerome’s hatchets. “Nice weapons.”
“They’re even nicer when they’re stuck in someone’s head, like this poor excuse of a filthy shit of a dog,” the other man snarled, nodding a Royce. He then added, in another tongue, “Can you please do something?”
“Do you want me to risk and throw one of the sisters?” Jerome replied with the same tongue.
“Please don’t,” Hadrian stated. “Yes, I speak Therin,” he added, to the two man’s surprise. “This is the accent from Camorr, right? I had been there for a while.”
Then, he pointed at Royce. “He would just dodge your hatchet and then things would become messy.” At Jerome’s frown, he added, “it’s not you, it’s him. I saw him dodging arrows too.”
“He can dodge arrows?”
“Sometimes. Let’s not make such a big fuss of it.”
Jerome threw a look at Royce, who hadn’t moved an inch for the entire discussion, nor let his smirk fade, Alverstone glinted in the light from outside.
“That wasn’t in the play,” he commented. “Riyria, I guess?”
Hadrian nodded. “Believe me, that play let out most of the absurd things that happened.”
“What kind of idiotic thieves let a play about them going around?” the prisoner stated. “Are you born so stupid or you damage your brain by suffocating in a whore’s pussy?”
Royce’s eyes darkened, while Hadrian cringed. Definitely not a good idea to talk bad about prostitutes.
“Give me a good reason not to slit your throat right now.”
“Because if you do, you won’t have leverage anymore for my friend, and you don’t want to spend the rest of your life with hatchets upon your ass, you cocksucker.”
“Does he always talk like this?” Hadrian asked Jerome.
“Yes, especially when someone is threatening him.”
“And how come no one has stabbed him yet?” Royce appeared genuinely curious.
“Oh, no, they did. But Gods are too much entertained to let him die.”
Before Hadrian could try again to ease the situation, the prisoner spoke again. “The last time a man threatened me, I tortured him to death.”
“Oh, really.” Royce’s voice was sweet.
“Unclog your shit-filled ears. I tortured a man to death.”
“Only one?” Hadrian had an eyebrow raised, and while his expression made Jerome and his friend perplexed, Royce snickered.
“I see you have a habit of being threatening,” he commented. “Wonder why.”
“To his defense, last time wasn’t asked for,” Jerome said. There was something in his eyes that remembered Hadrian of the time he’d failed to protect Rose.
“What happened?”
“We were involved in something we had nothing to do about. Our band- our family was killed. That man deserved every inch of torture he got.”
“I’m sorry,” Hadrian said sincerely.
His eyes fell on Royce, who was frowning. Hadrian could see very well his interior drama: you shouldn’t trust con men, yet torturing someone to death for revenge was something that hit Royce too close.
“Maybe we start with the wrong foot,” Hadrian said. “So. Hadrian Blackwater, Royce Melborn. Better known as Riyria.”
“Oh, so that was your real name?” Jerome looked baffled.
“Yeah, he’s stupid that way.” Royce moved his legs away and used Alverstone to cut the ropes. He eyed his prisoner, who stumbled out of the way with a grimace.
“Jean Tannen. And this is Locke Lamora,” Jerome said then.
“Well, now that nobody is threatened anymore,” Hadrian began, “you were the one after Mister Lynch’s painting?”
“Yeah, and you ruined the plan we prepared so carefully,” Locke commented.
Royce opened his mouth but Hadrian was faster, stepping forwards to avoid any diplomatic incident. “Why?”
“Miss Tiffany hired us.”
“Miss Nerily’s sister,” Royce commented. “The one that hired us.” He purposefully ignored Locke to address Jean. “I’m wrong in thinking she mistook you two for Riyria?”
“No, we suspect much so,” Jean nodded. “But we didn’t know until yesterday. Which was when I saw the play.”
“Before that, we didn’t even know you existed,” Locke pointed out. “Not so much famous as you think you are.”
“There is a reason why famous living thieves don’t exist,” Royce replied. “I care about me living.”
Hadrian tried to put back the conversation on the right path. “Well, Miss Tiffany and Miss Nerily want the same thing, since Lynch’s painting was owned originally by their father. We may find an agreement, to avoid stepping in each other’s path again.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Locke said. “You can have the painting. After all, I’m used to stealing from nobles, not being their lapdogs. We even made things easier for you.”
“Like we need it.” Royce snorted.
“You think you’re so smart and skilled, just because you sneak on me, right?” Locke commented. “Well, then I challenge you. Do you accept, or you use so much dark to hide you don’t have any balls down there?”
Hadrian groaned. Since Jean seemed as much unconvinced at him, he murmured, “Royce had been challenged once. It didn’t end well.”
“For him, or for his opponent?”
“For both.”
On the way back to their inn, Hadrian wasn’t sure how to address the argument, but Royce, who was walking in front of him, anticipated it.
“I must accept. We can’t have anyone going around and pretending to be us. We have a reputation.”
“Well, maybe it is time to retire,” Hadrian stated. “Recently, we accept jobs only to continue our search for DeWitt, but we don’t really need the money. We have been in the business for more than twelve years, it’s time to leave it to a new generation.”
“They aren’t much younger than us.” Royce glared at him.
Hadrian eyed him. “This isn’t about Riyria’s reputation. This is about your pride. You don’t like being challenged and you like even less being questioned about your skills as a thief. Like with dwarfs.”
“If I lost against that man, maybe I will need to retire for real,” Royce commented. “If you want that winery, bet against me.”
“Like I could,” Hadrian replied. “But he’s that bad?”
Royce’s eyes darkened. “No. He’s damn good. He was working his way out of the ropes before your arrival, and his way with disguises… I wouldn’t have recognized him if I didn’t see him change. I’m good with faking another personality, but he’s a master.”
Since Hadrian didn’t say anything, Royce added, “And his partner?”
“He’s good too.” Hadrian recalled his friendly sparring: he’d let the other win, but that didn’t impede Hadrian from noticing that there was no casualty in the way Jean fought.
“Can you beat him?”
Despite not having seen Jean fight with his weapon of choice, Hadrian was confident. “Yes, but it won’t be easy.”
Royce shook his head. “So we just accept a challenge with high stacks. Just another ordinary Riyria day.”
“Well, you accepted, so for once it isn’t my fault,” Hadrian pointed out. “I would have preferred a drinking challenge.”
“Which you would have lost.”
“Maybe, but at least I would have been too drunk to realize. Instead, something tells me I will have to be sober for the time being.”
The meeting point had been decided for a small, mountain town which was far enough from Varia not to attract suspects but not as far to take too many days from Riyria to reach after they completed their assignment.
Since Locke was busy rearranging his make-up set, Jean was the one opening the door. Locke didn’t even ask how Riyria had located their inn so easily: in such a small town, strangers weren’t hard to find, so the Gentlement hadn’t tried to disguise themselves much.
Once they were all sit down, Royce on the windowsill, Hadrian peaceful on the bed, and Jean in a chair near the door, Locke put away his tools and lifted his head.
“Everything good?” Jean asked Hadrian, who nodded.
“The painting was unattended, just like you said. And the two sisters were pleased. We guessed there was a little bit of miscommunication between the two of them, which resulted in all this mess.”
“Good,” Locke said. “Now that this matter is settled, we should talk about the real deal. We have an idea for our challenge?”
Royce wasn’t looking at anyone in the room, his head tilted a little towards the outside, as he was on duty guard. He murmured, “Delgos’ Declaration of Freedom.”
As Locke’s mount bent in a smirk, Jean shook his head. “It isn’t the one Father Chain spoke about? The ‘un-robbable’ object ever?”
“That’s how it been said,” Royce confirmed. “Impossible to steal.”
“It seems fit for such a challenge.” Locke couldn’t help but keep grinning.
“Okay,” Hadrian huffed. “Since I’m the only one who had the faintest idea what the hell are you talking about, care to explain?”
Royce looked at him, condescending. “Delgos’ Declaration was a document written after the fall of the steward’s reign, so around… seven hundred years ago? When Delgos marked its borders and created its republic. Over there, there are written the laws that even now constituted Delgos as a land.”
“So it’s just a… piece of paper?”
“It’s a lot more than that,” Jean intervened. “Since the importance of the moment, the document was compiled using the most refined techniques of the period and decorated by the most famous painter of that age, Hugues De Pain. Its importance lies in both art and history. In the black market, it has no price.”
“It can’t be forged too,” Locke added, his hands resting on the table. “It has three different writing styles, the paper was treated with a process long lost and someone goes as far as saying it had been enchanted, since it’s from the time mages still existed freely. It would take months to do a perfect copy and no one was granted such a long time in its presence.”
“A copy of it existed.” Now Royce was looking at Locke. “Professor Yassin was the only one permitted to study it, since is the maximum expert on Delgos’ history. But the copy had a distinctive sign so it can be distinguished from the original.”
Hadrian crossed his arms. “No forgery, then. But why is it un-robbable?”
As Locke and Royce shared a glare, the first nodded at the second to continue. “It’s kept under a closed case on the fourth floor of the Minareth, Cartiya’s old palace. The case is impossible to pick and the floor had no windows.”
“Is the case dwarfen made?” Hadrian asked.
“Yes. No gemlocks, luckily, but close enough. It can be open only with three keys.”
“Which are impossible to forge too,” Locke added. “Made with a special metal that can’t be stamped.”
“But if there are normal locks, why can’t they be picked?” Hadrian, with a frown, passed his eyes over both Royce and Locke.
“I’ll tell you when I grow a damn third hand.” Locke snorted.
“The mechanism works only if the locks turn at the same time,” Royce repeated patiently. “You would need three people to pick each lock individually, but you can never be sure to time at the same.”
“I mean, you might.” Locke moved his long fingers. “But it’ll take a huge amount of time and the possibilities to train with a perfect copy of the case, which is even harder to replicate.”
“So, no picks,” Hadrian stated. “What about the keys?”
Royce lifted three fingers. “Each key is guarded by one of Delgos’ mayor, the governors of the three provinces. They keep the key always with them, with no exception.”
“Are you saying you won’t be able to lift a key from them?”
“We are. I mean, at least I am,” Royce said. “But they live in three different cities. Only Lord Primul stays in Cartiya, while Lord Pontrivit in Arkin and Lady Treilea in Vandor. This means that you have to spend a huge amount of time to steal all three of them and the possibility that one of them notice before you have even one chance to step into Cartiya is too great.”
Locke decided to ignore Royce’s remark to address Hadrian directly. “If you can count on more people, you may be able to steal the keys at the same time, but you’ll still need time to reach Cartiya, which you can’t do in one day. They can.”
“Well, then.” Hadrian widened his arms. “Why are still talking about it? I suggest leaving this at it.”
“There is a possibility.” Now Jean’s brain was in action, much to Locke’s satisfaction. “There is a week during the years where the three Mayors are together in Cartiya.”
Locke didn’t miss the disappointment in Hadrian’s voice when he said, “and I guess it’s soon?”
“Two weeks,” Royce confirmed.
“It’s the Quares Feast, right?” Jean continued, as he hadn’t heard any of the two. “Which, conveniently, happens the same day they believe Delgos’ Declaration was signed. This is the reason they celebrate it there.”
Hadrian rubbed his chin. “I think I heard about it. It’s the celebration that comes after one month of fasting?”
“Not really fasting, but they can’t eat anything with sugar or drink wine,” Jean replied. “So, you can imagine just how much wine will be spilled during the Quares Feast.”
“Having many people celebrating gives us the possibility to be invisible.” Locke had no doubt it was one of the reasons Royce was proposing it. “Nobody would care about foreigners, thinking they’re there for the Feast.”
Royce’s eyes were again on the windows. “Of course, stealing the keys is only part of the plan. You have to get access to the Minareth. And this is another impossible task.”
“Please, don’t tell me it is another Drumindor,” Hadrian deadpanned.
“No, but it’s not easy. The Minareth is a four-store tall tower inside the old city hall palace. It is surveilled night and day by the division that had its base just next to the palace. The Minareth has no windows on the last floor, which is where the case is.”
“Okay, but someone can access it?”
“The Republicans. They are a special force of Delgos’ army deputed only to surveil the Minareth. Two of them stood on each floor of the Minareth but the fourth, because nobody could enter without the Mayors’ presence. They are very few, selected soldiers, so it is impossible to take their place because they all know each other.”
It was with satisfaction that Locke noticed Royce’s stare as he spoke the last words. Maybe impossible for everyone else but a master of disguise like Locke, who gave no satisfaction. He might be able to fake himself as one of the Republicans, but he had no desire to do so. Such a thing would be too rough for the Thorn of Camorr, but Royce could keep thinking it might be Locke’s plan.
“Let me summarize this.” Hadrian counted on his fingers. “We have to go in a city, steals three keys that aren’t replaceable, praying Maribor not to be found as we try to enter to an over surveilled tower to lift out a document. Did I understand correctly?”
“You forgot at least two people need to access that tower,” Royce added, much with Hadrian’s grimace. “Because only one person can’t unlock three locks at the same time.”
“Oh, right.”
Royce smirked. “But, of course, if someone here thinks it’s too hard, we may-”
“Oh, cut the crap,” Locke interrupted him. “Now that you proposed it, anything less than accepting it would be seen as cowardice, and the Crooked Warned can thunder me if I back down.”
Royce just shrugged.
“I do suggest we do not step in each other, trying to get the others arrested,” Jean said. “This thing will be hard enough by ourselves. Especially with only two weeks of preparation.”
“Right.” Locke nodded and looked straight at Royce. “But I have another condition. Since you were the one deciding the challenge, it’s only fair.”
“What condition?” There was a scold on Royce’s face, which Locke appreciated.
Stealing Delgos’ Declaration was almost an impossible task, but Locke was confident it could be done. The harder part wouldn’t be stealing it, but impeding Royce from doing it first, so he had to incapacitate him somehow.
“We’re going to exchange our partners,” Locke stated, as a moment of silence that increased the tension around. “I’ll work with Hadrian and you’ll work with Jean.”
“You know,” Jean started, as they were arranging their luggage. “You’re smarter than me when it comes to planning fraud, but I’m able at least to follow your lead. This time, I’m in the dark.”
“And you’re not as timid as a noble virgin,” Locke replied, with a snort. “Ask what you want.”
Jean let his backpack fall with a thud sound on the floor. Since Locke had spent the recent months mopping about the Grey King’s incident, he almost forgot how much an ass Locke could be when he decided so.
“Why in the Nameless One’s name you propose the change between Hadrian and me?”
“Aww, Jean, are you jealous?” Locke replied, with a smug expression. “But come on, after you illustrate to me all of Hadrian’s quality. I just have-”
“Asshole,” Jean interrupted him.
Locke sneered. “This is all part of my plan, I assure you.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Even if we decide not to step into each other’s plan, it’s almost impossible not to when we’re after the same mark.” Locke wrapped a rope around his pack. “The only way for us to win is to elaborate a plan that, at the same time, impedes Riyria from completing theirs.”
“So you want me to tell you Royce’s plan?” Jean understood. “But Hadrian will do the same with yours. And, by the way, I doubt Royce will share anything with me.”
“Oh, no, he’ll do it. Just, it won’t be his real plan, as I won’t reveal mine to Hadrian.”
Jean took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, then put them back. “Damn the day I didn’t let you rot.”
“Listen.” Locke closed his luggage after taking off a couple of vests. “It’s a matter of skills. Over an already hard fraud, we need to elaborate on two different plans, one real, one fake for the other group. It’s part of the challenge.”
“Whatever.” Jean lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m just happy to see you back in the business, even if over such bullshit. I guess you don’t have any ideas yet?”
Locke smirked with satisfaction. “Oh, no. I have. I had a plan even before Father Chain’s death.”
“What?” And then he understood. “Of course. Of course you have planned on it since he told us about it. Spit it out.”
“When Royce proposed it, I couldn’t believe my luck.” Locke walked to the center of the room and made an elaborate curtsy. “Forget about all that Royce said about stealing keys. That’s a completely shit attempt of being a gracious thief, and nothing to do with the Gentlemen Bastards.”
“Yeah, you’re in any shape to do something like that. And definitely not as good as Royce.”
“You’re hurting my feeling by pointing out that. I’m just a brainer kind of thief than that moneky, thank you very much.” Locke snorted. “No, my plan was a lot more refined than that. It was about having the Mayors give us the Declaration on a silver plate. I was supposed to be a Professor Yassif’s student in Cartiya to complete his studies. I would have been young, naïve, but incredibly intelligent and knowledgeable.”
“And inexistent, I add,” Jean said, amused.
“Absolutely. So would have you, an antiquities collector who just have been offered for the stolen copy of the Declaration, and the Sanzas with the duty of being various characters we might need to keep the farce up.” Locke’s expression fell as he was talking. “Sabetha was supposed to have a role too, before, you know.”
“Did you change the plan after Sabetha left? Like, giving her role to Bug?”
Unwillingly, Locke smiled. “Sure. I would have put a wing on him and hoped that the guards are attracted to a masculine woman with a dead raccoon as a braid.”
There was sadness in their laugh, but it was pleasant to remember their family again in such a funny way. Jean was especially satisfied to see Locke back to himself: he couldn’t say he approved the entire challenge thing, but everything was good as long he had the Thorn back. And nothing was better than a contest with a skilled opponent that, at the same time, didn’t want to kill them.
Maybe. With Royce, Jean couldn’t tell with certainty.
“But you can’t use this plan now.”
“Oh, no, I will. I just need to re-arranging it a little and give Royce the Sanzas’ role as conspirators. It can be done.”
“Not alone,” Jean replied. “And you can trust Hadrian barely, by your own doing.”
“Are you doubting me, Jean?”
“Of course not, but…” Jean breathed heavily. “So that’s the reason you proposed this exchange for real. You don’t want to remember we miss people doing the job with me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
But Jean knew Locke enough to not mistake the way he moved to avoid any unwanted questions, so he decided to let the argument fall.
“You need help for this,” Jean stated again.
“And I’ll have it. Pretty sure Cartiya had enough dregs to find someone ready to do everything for some coins.”
It wasn’t how the Gentlemen Bastards worked usual, not like Locke worked usually. He used a lot more time to elaborate a plan, even if Jean had seen him working faster under pressure.
However, Jean wasn’t about to point it out, not when Locke seemed so eager to start working.
So he changed the subject. “And you already have something in mind to ask Riyria when we win?”
“Oh, that.” Locke made a devilish face. “To be honest, not yet. I mean, the first thing I wished was to have Royce arrested but only after having him do a nice bath in a shit pool, but why limiting our fantasy?”
“You really don’t like people sneaking at you.”
“I don’t like people threatening me.” Locke clenched his teeth.
Sure, Royce hadn’t killed anyone in their family, but Jean felt it was a dreadful remainder of the Falconer; summarized to the fact Royce was a thief too, it wasn’t surprising Locke wanted to give a lesson about who was the king of thieves.
His pride was on the line.
Unfortunately, from the brief encounter they had with Royce, Jean felt that being his partner put a little more than his pride in play.
“Put this on.”
Abruptly, Locke threw Hadrian a bundle of clothes, which definitely saw better days. They were rough, smelly and torn; when Hadrian unwrapped them, he realized they were nothing more than a monk robes. Locke had already finished dressing up as one, so he was now loading his horse.
“Not to make a stupid question,” Hadrian said, “but why?”
“We aren’t going to Cartiya as our own self,” Locke replied, without looking at him. “I don’t give two fuck about how you’re used to, now we play under my rules. And for the Nameless One, hid that swords.” After passing him a piece of cloth, Locke mumbled under his breath, “It’s like they walk around with a sign ‘hey, it’s me, come arrest me’.”
Thinking Locke did manage in a couple of minutes to be more tyrannical than Royce, Hadrian didn’t discuss further. As much as he felt naked, he wrapped his two swords in the fabric and put them in his backpack. He only kept the spadone, which could be hidden under the hood of the monk’s vest.
“We’re going a little bit south,” Locke informed him, as they guided the horses outside the stable. “Joining a monastery down then until Cartiya.”
“Won’t it be longer?”
“Just barely. And there no sense following Jean and Royce’s journey, not if we want to beat them.”
Mounting, Hadrian just nodded. He was used to following instructions, since Royce was more the schemer and the brain of the couple, but he couldn’t deny being a little bit nervous. Despite more than twelve years in the business, Hadrian didn’t feel like a thief completely. He was a fighter and Royce’s partner. Going around and joining another band felt strange.
He eyed Locke, who kept his face hidden under the hood, wondering if he was chattier than Royce. He definitely had a lot to say back then. When they were far enough from the city, Hadrian felt safe enough to give it a try.
“So… How come two people from Camorr are so far home?” he started.
At first, the silence stretched, therefore Hadrian sighed, preparing for another journey with a monologue until Locke answered.
“We made a big mess there. Well, not everything was our fault, but tell them that. So we have to leave.”
“How big?” Hadrian asked. “Like, big level of ‘people find us’ or-”
“Big like I cut the tongue and fingers of a Bondsmage, then helped save all the nobles of Camorr before conning them into letting a ship with all their money explode. Oh, without counting the other big mess about killing the boss of the Camorr’s bands.”
“Yeah, I can see the problem.” Hadrian wondered why Locke and Royce didn’t get along. “The boss was the one killing your family?”
Locke’s jaws clenched a little. “I’m not a murderer, but that motherfucked asked for it.” Then, as to change the argument, Locke tilted his head, observing Hadrian carefully. “And you? When were you in Camorr and why?”
“Back then, I was a mercenary. I changed armies a lot.” Hadrian sighed. “After the Battle of Vilan Hills, I left and went south, trying to find another who could hire me. Duke Nicovante was busy submitting some of the areas around, so plenty of work for me.”
“I heard about Vilan Hills Battle. It was more than a decade ago.” Locke narrowed his eyes. “Just how old are you?”
“Not as much as you may think. I was seventeen back then.”
“And you were a mercenary?”
Hadrian shrugged. “Got an early start.”
“And Royce? Was he a mercenary too?”
“No. Used to be a bucket man, but…” Despite not knowing for real what happened in Colnora, the few bits he’d heard were more than enough. “I won’t ask more, not if you care about your life.”
“A bucket man means paid assassin, right?” Locke snorted, but didn’t add anything. “How long were you in Camorr?”
“Couple of months, more or less. When the raids ended, there was no place for me. It wasn’t like I didn’t try, but… I kinda got in trouble with the Contrarequiallas, so…”
“You got trouble with them?” Locke sneered. “What did you do? Sneaking in their changing room? Hitting on two of them at the same time?”
“No! I mean, yes, but that wasn’t the reason.” Hadrian shook his head. “They didn’t appreciate me participating in their battle. Stealing their privileges, they said. They weren’t wrong, so, like usual, I got away. Find me another arena to fight in.”
Since Locke didn’t answer, Hadrian turned: Locke was staring at him with wide eyes. “You’re the fucking Dimachaerus?! The only man allowed in the Teeth Show?! Crooked Warden, people still talk about you. The Contrarequiallas still cursed your name.”
“You know, it’s not nice telling people that wonderful women used your name as a swearing,” Hadrian replied, with a pout.
The information didn’t surprise him, though. Unfortunately, nobody had forgotten about him in Calis, and even worse, sometimes not even in Avryn.
“Yeah, well, damn. Jean wasn’t wrong about you.”
For a while, Locke didn’t talk, but Hadrian could feel his gaze on him, the way he was scrutinizing him as to find out some sort of secret about him. But Hadrian didn’t really have any secret, just a long list of bad decisions and regrets.
“I was an orphan,” Locke said, at last. “I got trained to be a thief, and I’m good at it. But you? With your kind of talent, anyone with some coins in their purse will hire you. It’s like having a feast and choosing to knell and suck someone’s else toe.”
Hadrian looked at him curiously. “You know, something working under someone’s order is to suck their toes.”
Locke snorted. “That is true. Still, it doesn’t explain how you ended up with Royce.”
“Destiny? Fate? The Gods mocking us?” Hadrian shrugged. “I needed a change of life, and Royce was… how to put it, thrown at me.” He chuckled. “You don’t like him very much, do you?”
“Oh, what give me away?” Locke asked, with a witty smile. “The fact that I hope to see him hang by his balls at the end of this?”
Hadrian could have explained to Locke that, although Royce’s attitude was unnerving, threatening him was never a good idea, but he decided not to. Despite everything, Locke stood to him like someone that could actually appreciate Royce, at least under the layers of brooding and dark clothes.
So, he said instead, “Don’t worry, you’re not the only one. Most people hate Royce at first sight. I wanted to kill him once.”
“Oh, and why didn’t you do that? It could have spared us a lot of trouble.”
“I guess you won’t like me much when I tell you that, instead of killing him, I saved his life.”
Locke snorted. “Either you are a very good actor, in that case, I applaud your talent, or you are a very good person, in that case, I pity for your soul.”
Hadrian decided not to answer about it, so Locke pressed. “Who knows, at the end of it, you can give a shot of becoming a Gentlemen Bastard.”
“Another change of career?” Hadrian laughed.
“Why not? We may be assassins, but we never targeted innocents. Perelandro’s balls, I risked my life, my freedom, and my revenge because I didn’t think children should be murdered, not even noble children. Royce stuck me out like someone that didn’t care about the life of anyone.”
There was a part of Hadrian that might reflect on how Royce was and how he changed during the years of their partnership. But it wasn’t the point of Riyria: when Hadrian’d decided to remain with him, Royce had been exactly as Locke described him. And yet, Hadrian had accepted to be his partner.
“You may think Royce’s a monster,” he stated. “And you won’t be the only one thinking it. But, for me, he’s just one that hasn’t filled his cup yet. Unlike me.”
“His cup?” Locke frowned. “Is it a sexual metaphor of some sort?”
“No, but I’m telling you that it isn’t tea that we used.”
Because Locke ignored, or didn’t understand, that Hadrian had been a monster too.
The monastery of Azri wasn’t anything like Winds Abbey: it was smaller, nothing more than a cluster of ruined stone houses. But the monks were nice, the food tasty, and Hadrian didn’t mind sleeping on the floor if he had at least a roof under his head.
The next day, they left with a group of other monks, all direct to Cartiya for the celebration. Locke had enough knowledge of Azri’s rites to be mistaken for a real monk, but Hadrian didn’t, so he remained silent most of the time, pretending he didn’t know the language.
When they were on the road, he and Locke regained their conversation in Therin, still paying attention that no one else was listening to them.
“How do you think Royce will proceed?”
“You mean with the theft?”
“No, with his attempt of having someone stick a blade upon his ass.” Locke rolled his eyes.
“Oh, about that. Pretty good, I’d say. The problem isn’t the reason, Royce gives people plenty, it is to find the right moment.”
Hadrian smiled back at Locke’s amused smirk, then added, “He’ll climb the Minareth.”
“Are you hundred percent sure about it?”
“Yep.” Hadrian shrugged. “It’s what Royce does. And he does it well. If you have seen him move, even for a while, you’d know.”
Locke pulled out a reluctant nod, before stroking his chin with three fingers. “But the Minareth has no window.”
“He’ll pass through the roof. We did it once.” Hadrian shook his head, remembering the event of Ballentyne’s letters. That had been fun. “People overlook it most of the time, especially in tall buildings, because no one expects Royce.”
“And about the keys? Even if he manages to steal them, he can’t swipe the three locks by himself. And I can’t see Jean climbing with him.”
“I can’t see Royce let Jean climb, unless he wants to cut the rope,” Hadrian replied, half joking. “No, technically Royce can bring Jean with him. He’s done it with me more than once.”
“But he won’t,” Locke understood. “Pretty sure he’s enough of a back-stabbed bitch to risk anyone pulling the same shit on him.”
“I need to point out that Royce prefers people seeing him when he kills them. But in any case, no, he won’t trust Jean with it.”
“So the problem remains: how can he do that?”
Hadrian passed a hand through his hair. “Maybe a system of straps that connects the keys? I don’t know. I’m only sure about him climbing the tower.”
Locke scrutinized him. “Or, maybe, you’re lying to me so I will lower my guard.”
“Your guard is horrible,” Hadrian replied. “I do hope you didn’t pay whoever gave you sword lessons; otherwise, I suggest you a refund.” At Locke’s offended expression, he added, “But no, I’m not lying to you.”
“Why not?”
“I want to win. And, right now, it looks like I’m on your team.” He winked
Locke’s perplex face turned soon in an amused sneer. “I’m not surprised Royce has such good friends.”
“What about you? Do you have a plan?”
Hadrian understood that asking so blunt may cause Locke to be even more reserved, but he was tired of not being informed. With Royce, after years, it was a matter of trust, even if still annoying. He didn’t extend the same courtesy to Locke, especially because he knew Locke would lie to him.
“Not really, but it’s not a problem. Most of my best idea comes like that,” Locke replied. “I know only one thing for certain. We need that reply of the Declaration. And that will be our job: go to Professor Yassin’s house and steal it.”
If Hadrian remembered correctly, Yassin lived in an isolated villa a few days of travel from Cartiya, which meant that, to arrive in time, he needed to leave immediately.
“Is this your trick to have me out of the way?” Hadrian asked, but Locke only answered with a smart grin. Then, Hadrian shook his head. “And here I think we were bonding.”
As much as Royce hated the idea of being alone with a complete stranger who was, by Hadrian’s own words, a good fighter, at least he appreciated the fact that Jean was less annoying than Hadrian. He didn’t try to start a conversation during his travel nor didn’t complain about Royce’s silence. He just followed his gesture about the path Royce chose, the places where they slept, and when they ate.
That was a nice change in their habits. Even if, at last, a small part of Royce admitted he missed Hadrian’s blabbering.
“Two rooms, please,” Royce said to the owner, placing a couple of silver tenents on the desk.
Again, Jean didn’t complain. In silence, he took the second key and moved after Royce towards his room, where he deposited his luggage in a very neat manner. After all, Royce had seen him shaving as much as possible during their travel, a habit that Hadrian hadn’t.
Only when Royce was about to leave for a scout in the city, Jean spoke. “I come with you.”
“No,” Royce answered curtly.
“It wasn’t a request.”
Royce looked at him: Jean’s expression and eyes were quiet, his weapon of choice invisible, hidden inside his sleeves. Royce knew danger when he saw it.
“You don’t like this situation. Good news, asshole, I don’t too,” Jean continued. “But as long as we’re here, I’m not going to be a piece of furniture.”
It was true, Royce didn’t like that situation. He knew Locke put him in a box, but he couldn’t say no to his condition not to show weakness. Being challenged never suited Royce with good decisions. Jean was there to do nothing more than spying on Royce, so Royce would have preferred just keeping him out of the way instead of lying to him.
But people never got what they deserved.
“Fine. You can come with me.” Royce smirked. “If you can keep up.”
Then, in a swift movement, he was out, merging himself in the crowd of Cartiya as if it was his homeland, not looking back at Jean.
Like many of Delgos’ cities, it was a multicultural place filled with people from every part of the continent. The locals could be recognized by their clothes and hats, as they wore those long vests with sandals and decorated cloth belts, their heads covered with a fez, some of them with a veil to cover part of their face or nape. But they weren’t the majority, so Royce, with his pale features and his dark hood, didn’t stand up too much.
The suq was the main street of Cartiya, a long serpentine path filled with shops and stalls; their tents covered the entire large of the road, making the sky invisible from above and the air chilling. At the end of it, started the Upper Road, the only access to the citadel, where the building of the officials and governors stood. During the day, the access was free, so Royce entered without being disturbed.
When Jean reached him, he was sitting at a table with a clear view of the city hall – not the one with the Minareth, the new one. Long rows of people were waiting to access the offices.
Jean joined him just the moment one waiter delivered them two cups and a carafe of cold tea. The surprise on Jean’s face made Royce smirk, so he felt amiable enough to pour the tea from both of them.
“Thanks.” Jean wiped out the sweat from his forehead before taking a sip. “You’re fast.”
And you’re not as bad as I thought, unfortunately, Royce thought to himself. Even if Royce made a point of letting Jean follow him, he was fast and even enough silent, for one of his sizes. It was something Hadrian had never learned.
“What are we doing here?” Jean asked.
Royce nodded at the city hall. “We need to find out where the other two Mayors stay during the feast. I doubt they’re already there, but palaces should be arranged for them.”
“Stealing documents from an office?”
Instead of answering, Royce asked, “How good you are at diversion?”
Jean only smiled. Then, he kissed the back of his hand. “When we start?”
“What was that?” Royce asked, curious. He’d seen many tics from thief in the Black Diamon, but that was peculiar.
“What? Oh, this.” Jean watched his hand. “Just paying my respect to the Nameless One. The God of Thieves,” he added, at Royce’s silent question.
“The God of Thieves, eh.” Royce smiled. “If I grow up with this, maybe I would be a religious person too.”
Unfortunately, he’d learned early on that there was no god to help him. -
.
“Lady Modina is not here anymore.”
Alric and Arista exchanged a glare, then he went back to the prison guard, “What do you mean?”
“We was moved yesterday evening, order from the court.”
“Moved where?”
The guard shrugged. “I don’t know, I wasn’t here. I only know about the transfer, saying it was for security reason because she may attempt to kill herself. I guess they brought her to some hospital facility, but you need to ask the court.”
“This is a lie!” Arista gritted her teeth. “She would never-”
“Thank you for your information.” Alric grabbed Arista’s hand to stop her. “We will pass thought official channels.”
Arista obeyed him until they were far enough from the prison, then she exploded. “This is a blatant attempt to impede us to speak with her. They’re trapping her somewhere, this is highly illegal and we should-”
“I’m aware of it.”
Arista didn’t understand why he was so calm when Modina could be in danger. “And so? We should march immediately to the court and demand her immediate release to whatever hole they hid her.”
“We need to do this properly. And quiet.” Alric was whispering, and he was pale. “I’m not his lawyer yet, thanks to you. I can’t just making demands. I’m gonna question around, discovering where she was and then…”
“We may not have time for it. Someone is aware of our investigation. There is a conspiracy. I need to-”
“You don’t need anything. I’ll deal with this. You’re too hysterical in this moment.”
Arista watched her brother, the way he was avoiding her gaze, the way he kept himself controlled as fearing to say something he shouldn’t. “You think the same.” It was a feeling she’d had since the day before.
“What?”
“You said most people think like Luis Guy. Think that women don’t belong in other places but houses.” Her words were harsh, one after another like stones. “You are one of them. You won’t cut me out from my case.”
“Your case? You dragged me on this.”
“I had no choice!” Arista was rising her voice. “Believe me, I would have preferred not involving you at all.”
That hurt Alric, but he recovered fast enough. “Because you were doing so good without me, conducting an investigation without any authorization. If we are in this situation, is mostly your fault: never accept cases without the client’s signature. If you want to show me that women can do my job, you’re doing a poor show of it.”
It was like a slap. She should have known, after all Alric hadn’t never hidden his distaste when Arista had been admitted at the school law and he’d agreed with their father that she shouldn’t try to become a full time lawyer. Yet, it was still painful.
“What I mean-” But she interrupted him. She didn’t want fake apologies.
“No, no, you’re right. I’m too emotional, how can I make intelligent decision right now? It’s better I return home and cry on a pillow and then knit a handkerchief to blow my nose.”
Alric threw his arms in the air. “Arista…”
But she wasn’t listening anymore. “Sorry, you have to go by foot from now on, but you won’t let this poor, fragile girl going around without supervision. I may faint, too much emotion for a single day.” She stumped towards their carriage.
She had a feeble hope that Alric would stop her, but he didn’t and the coachman drove away.
When she arrived home, her burning anger had turned into an iron determination. She had no intention to let anyone stop her from defending Modina. Her brother could blabber about it, but that was her case, her responsibility.
In their father’s office, upon the desk, the case files were, all ordered in different enveloped as from the last examination. Arista took all of them, moved the chairs away and spread the papers all around. In the silence of the empty house, she studied them, maniacally, waiting for a new clue, a missing piece of the puzzle they hadn’t placed yet.
Her rage increased every time she read Luis Guy’s name, or his written testimony, but after some hours it became such an habit that her brain cooled down, analyzing better the problem. And when Amilia’s letter of dismissal came to her attention again, Arista finally noticed something.
It didn’t make sense, but…
Arista rushed to her room, lifted the mattress where she’d hid the documentation about her petition against her ban. She didn’t want Alric to find out, so all the papers were there, included the written letter Luis Guy had produced for the trial.
When it confronted it with Amilia’s, she didn’t need Myron to have the indisputable truth: they were written by the same person. Why should Luis Guy have done something like that? He had no involvement whatsoever with the Novronian Company, as far as she knew.
Arista returned to the case files in the office and read again Luis Guy’s testimony. He didn’t say why he was at dinner with Ethereld, so she’d assumed they were friend of some sort. But she didn’t think friends were asked to write letters of dismissal. Maybe she could ask Alenda of… and then she remembered.
Ethereld wanted to turn the company in a weaponry factory. Luis Guy was a strong advocate with the king of the necessity for the nation to follow other nation’s example and colonize less developed nation. He was a captain of the army other than a lawyer. One needed army for that.
Arista took Novron’s will and Modina’s arrangement with Ethereld: immediately, the difference was clear in her mind.
Novron had been very precise, so no one by his own heir could make decision for the company, which was the reason why the church, until Modina’s arrival, had done the minimum to make the company survive, unable to make any fundamental changes.
Modina’s arrangement had nothing of it. If she died, the church would take back the control of everything, this time without Novron’s liability to stay quiet. They could have turned the fabric in whatever production they preferred and it would be legal.
They’re all involved in this…
It was even possible Modina wasn’t the heir, but a puppet they’d decided to use for their purpose. They’d probably thought an orphaned and poor girl would be easy to control. Arista re-read the agreement and concluded that they’d planned to kill her in any case, but surely Modina’s adamant conviction into maintain the factory as it always had been had accelerate things.
With Modina death, the church in the figure of Saldur would have given back the management to Ethereld, as they’d done before. And Luis Guy would have gained the weapons he needed for his campaign in the South.
That night, Saldur and Luis Guy had been there to be witness, but in Ethereld’s favor. He would have killed Modina and then his two accomplices would have guarantee for him that he was innocent. Maybe they’d planned for it to look like a suicide. When Modina had defended herself and Ethereld had been killed instead, Saldur and Luis Guy had rearranged their plan, giving her a reason for murder, testifying against her so they could still steal her company.
Now she just needed to prove it. Aside that the proof Luis Guy wrote both letters, the rest is pure speculation from her part. How to demonstrate that Ethereld tried to kill Modina and that the others were lying? She exanimated the documentation again while a plan formed in her head, thanks to Breckton precise investigation.
She was so focused that she jerked when someone touched her shoulder.
“Sorry. I called you but you weren’t answering.” It was Lenare, flawless as usually, but with a hint of worries in her dark gaze. “I was looking for my brother.”
“Mauvin is out. He has a lesson, I think.”
Lenare nodded. “I thought so. Can I let this to you?” She gestured to the package in her arms. “Mother is worry he doesn’t eat enough since Mauvin lives here.”
Arista blinked at her, not really understanding what she was saying. “Are you here with your carriage?”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
“Can you accompany me to a place?”
If she left with Lenare, Alric wouldn’t suspect or complain.
Luis Guy Seret’s office was exactly like the man himself: severe, tidy and boring. Nothing was out of order, nothing was original but an old room that hadn’t been change for century. The door was slight ajar, as if Luis Guy wanted to keep an eye of the outside, so Arista marched inside without knocking.
He didn’t expect her, that much was clear, but he controlled himself perfectly. Slowly, he put down his pen, straightened his back and looked directly at her, mild-annoyed eyes.
“Miss Essendon. What can I do for you.”
“You already did too much,” she replied. The tone was calm, though. She wasn’t her for a petty revenge.
“If this is about my report-”
“No. About it, we’ll discuss it in the appropriate forum.” She paced the room back and forth, as it was her territory. “I just came here to inform about a personal success of mine.”
“I didn’t know you’re getting married, but congratulation.”
She reserved him a patronizing smile. “I convinced Detective Breckton to use the fingerprints analysis for Lady Modina’s investigation. Are you aware of what fingerprints analysis is, Mister Seret? I’m not sure, because you seem one step back in the last century.”
Despite his apparent calm, Arista hadn’t missed the way his hands clenched slightly. “I know very well about it. It’s not common in our court.”
“There is nothing common about Modina’s case.” Arista tilted her head at one law book in the library. “Breckton agrees with me. I do wonder, which fingerprints we’ll find on the knife?” She eyed him: that was a score hit. “It hadn’t been mentioned in any testimony, but it was there, at the crime scene. I saw the photos. Someone used it and I bet it was not Modina.”
“What are you insinuating?” Luis Guy stood up: he was slender and tall, sharp like a blade.
“Me? Nothing.” She faked innocence. “Just the fact that the world advances. New inventions permit people to do things they couldn’t in the past. You better get used to the idea that you can’t stop the future. Good day, Mister Seret.”
She swirled on her heels, heading for the door. In an instant, Luis Guy was on her. He shut the door close with a hand, while with the other he kept her pressed against the wall, painfully. She kicked him.
“And why are you telling me this, Miss Essendon?”
His voice was calm, too calm. She couldn’t answer, because she felt his hand on her neck, gripping tightly. She fought to breath, to get free, until she had no strength left.
When she regained consciousness, she was in the dark, gagged and bound hands and feet. She groaned and squeeze her eyes to free herself from the foggy. Her plan worked a little bit too well: she hadn’t anticipated Luis Guy to jump on her immediately. By her calculation, he would have tried to retrieve the knife before Breckton’s arrival: what she would have need to do was to ask Breckton or anyone else ready to participate to set a trap.
And now? What was the plan now?
Arista wriggled a little, sagging the rope, as she noticed she was in a carriage, her back against one of the door, sitting on the floor. A figure on the seat next to her moved and she froze, as he tried to recognize the features in the dark.
“Oh, girl. I never wanted this.” The tone was familiar, kind, regretful. It was Saldur. “I told you not to stick your nose in this affair.”
Arista took a deep breath to control her anger. Saldur had been a family friend. He’d seen her growing up, he’d convinced her father to let her study. The idea he had been such a monster and nobody had noticed before unnerved her.
“But no,” he went on, as he wasn’t talking to her. “Just like your father, you put yourself in a position that is unacceptable.”
A shiver passed through all her body. Her father had died suddenly, hit by a carriage. They all thought it had been an accident, a misfortune, but now Saldur was insinuating that… She grumbled behind her gag.
Slowly, Saldur caressed her face. She resisted to jerk away despite her body’s protest only because he was removing the rag in her mouth.
“Alric.” Arista coughed, her throat dry. “You were the one suggesting him cases that he couldn’t have won.”
Saldur’s expression didn’t change. “I need him to be too busy to check in your father’s past affair. I guess I should thank you for it, now. When Rudolf finds out that Alric lied about being Modina’s lawyer, it’ll be the end of the Essendon firm.”
“You bastard…” Arista gritted her teeth.
“I had you study because I hoped you would dedicate your life to theoretical.” Saldur wasn’t watched her anymore. “I even suggested you a convent, remember? I’m sorry it’ll end like this, but it was your own doing.”
The door of the carriage open. It was even more dark outside, but Arista’s eyes were enough used to it to recognize the silhouette of the man.
Saldur leaped up. “Did you take it? Has anyone seen you?”
“Yes and no.” Luis Guy grabbed Arista by one arm, rude, and dragged her outside the carriage. “Let’s get over with it.”
He cut off the rope at her ankles so she could walk, still gripping her with strength, painful, as he forced her to walk at his steady. Saldur was at his side, quiet. As she turned her head around, she recognized the silhouette of the main fabric of Novronian’s company, stood silent and protective against the starry sky.
They were in Percepliquis, and, judging by the fabric’s position, on the west bank, where the dam and the bridge that connected the two edges was, not far from the road.
Alone and at night, there were few outcomes for her, that much was clear.
But only when they reached the river she understood their plan. It had rained recently, so the river was in flood, his muddy water flowing with frightening speed and strength. The sound of it was deafening, hiding their steps in the ground and any other sound around.
She was a good swimmer, but if she fall in that, she would surely drown. She wasn’t even sure they would be able to find her body, or if it would be at all recognizable when they did, all swollen and beat by the water force.
“Put the knife on her,” Saldur ordered. Luis Guy halted. “With both of them disappearance, Breckton will suspect she is the one taking it.”
“I don’t like this.” Luis Guy turned Arista around and slide the knife inside the fabric of her dress, near her abdomen. For once, Arista thanked the elaborate feminine fashion. “I don’t like murder women. If you just stay in your place…”
“Instead, I like doing this.”
Arista kicked him in the shin with all her strength, then she with her hands that had finally disentangled from the ropes, she lifted her skirt and gave him another kick between his legs. She didn’t wait to see him on the ground but she run away.
“Arista! Stop!” Saldur screamed, but he was old, slow and fat. He didn’t even try to follow her.
Percepliquis was near. She only need to reach the village and ask for help. Amilia still lived there, for now. Gerald, too. They could call for the other workers, protect her as they call for the police.
But then Luis Guy reached her. She grabbed her by the hair and slammed her on the ground. The blow on the head made her dizzy, the iron smell of blood invaded her sense. The knife pressed against her abdomen, the blade cut the skin. Luis Guy didn’t stop, kicking her in the face and in the chest.
She couldn’t say if the light in front of her was real or her brain abandoning her until she heard voices yell to each other. Someone had noticed the commotion. Luis Guy stopped, a salt statue on the night. Then, he moved away.
“It’s there. They’re there!”
Arista blinked to remain awake, but her body shuddered painful as arms grabbed her, lifting her with grace. The knife was removed from her dress and she felt the hot stream of blood.
“Arista. You’re safe. It’s fine. Call of a doctor!”
Only then, she conceded herself to relax.
“Good morning.”
Arista stretched: his body complained immediately, still sore, but the mattress was soft and the room warm. Mauvin sat at the edge of the bed, legs dangling, a big grin on his face. She was in her bedroom, she was safe.
“How did you find me?” she mumbled, as her mind woke up.
“Thank my sister for it. She was the one informing us you went to the Justice Court and never got out. After it, searching for Luis Guy’s movements was the obvious path.”
She nodded. “Did you catch him?”
“Unfortunately, he ran away.” Mauvin snorted. “But Saldur is in custody and he’ll have a hard time justify himself about his whereabouts.”
“And the knife?”
Mauvin shrugged. “Detective Breckton took it. But even without it, we’re sure Saldur will confess. As a religious person, the church will protect him if he cooperate. Alric is at the police station at the moment, to surveil the situation.”
That reminded Arista about their discussion. “How angry he is?”
“Weeell…” Mauvin lifted his eyes at the ceiling and made a embarrassed expression. The sound of a door slamming downstairs stopped him. “I guess you’ll find out very soon.”
He leaped up and Arista, with a dash that made her entire body wobble, grabbed his arm. “Please, stay. Your presence may calm him.”
“Oh, no, no, I’m not going to be involved in this.” With the agility of a cat, he sprang outside the room just when Alric was entering. He didn’t seem to notice it, his face revealing all the fury that burbled inside him.
The door banged behind him as he paced the room. “I can’t believe it. The audacity. The disrespect. The… the completely disregard of any sentiment.”
Despite thinking that Alric was a little bit overdramatic, Arista didn’t want to argue with him again. “Alric. I had to do something. Modina was in danger. I can explain…”
Alric wasn’t listening. “I trusted him when he consoled me of my father’s death. I trusted his advices about my cases. I was even ashamed that I disappointed him when he’d shown so much faith in me. And all this time he was responsible for father’s death, he conspired to have me fail and now he has almost murdered you.”
It took a second for Arista to realize that Alric’s rage wasn’t aimed at her. Baffled, she remained still on the bed, silent as his brother ended his tirade against Saldur.
Then, Alric turned, as he saw her for the first time. He was still angry, but the expression show more determination now. “Arista. We’re going to free Modina, now that Saldur confess everything. And then we’re going to write down your appeal at the Supreme Court to have you reinstalled immediately in the roll of lawyers.”
“Oh.” Arista was still bewildered by his brother’s new side. “I already wrote it.”
“What?”
“The appeal request. I already wrote it.”
“Against my explicit order?”
“Yes.”
Arista checked his brother, wondering if this admission would made him change his mind. Instead, Alric emitted a strangled sound that was his attempt to contain a laugh, then shook his head incredulous and rubbed his eyes. When he calmed down, he was smiled.
“Let me see it.”
Modina and Amilia came to visit her two weeks later.
“I would have come earlier,” Modina explained, “but I had to settle things at the factory first.”
By Saldur’s machination, the management of the Novronian Company now that she wasn’t married anymore returned under the church’s administration, even if she was still the owner. The new handler was a young bishop named MXXX completely in disagreement with Saldur and steady in his faith. He was more than ready to let Modina managing her factory. Amilia’s dismissal was promptly retired and she was again at Modina’s side.
The two women appeared happy and healthy. Even outside of prison Modina had the collected attitude that had impressed greatly Arista the first time they’d met, but now she also had an aura of peace that enlightened her, a glint in her eyes and a small curled on her lips, especially when she looked at Amilia.
“I already spoke with Alric,” Modina went on, “I want you as a lawyer when I will appeal against my prenuptial agreement.”
“The church should have no claim over Modina’s properties.” Now that Modina was safe, Amilia revealed a feral aspect too.
“Bishop MXXX agrees, but of course we need a court to ratify it.”
“It’ll be my pleasure, but…” Arista watched tired at the pile of papers she and Alric were preparing for her own appeal. “I’m still not a lawyer. I can assist Alric when-”
“No.” Modina placed a hand over hers. “You will be a lawyer again. I can wait until that moment.”
The tone in which she said that, and Amilia’s little smile, gave Arista a surge of confidence. If Modina said that, it had to be true. That was just her power and Arista couldn’t be more happy to have helped saving such a wonderful woman.
They left in the same moment Alric and Mauvin were back, Mauvin from his sword teaching and Alric from the court, where he took care of the lower cases he still had to assist with. Their attitude was completely different from Modina and Amilia, but Arista was now sure to understand why Mauvin had got Amilia’s feeling so well.
She wasn’t going to investigate, though.
“Why are you smiling like that?” Alric asked, with a frown. “You look nuts.”
“Modina was here. And I was just remembered why I want to be a lawyer.”
And nobody would stop her by being one. -
.
The feast was unostentatious but elegant. Lord Samuel Exeter didn’t possess the means to pay for expensive musician, foreign food or excessive decoration, despite the present from the crown. Etiquetted imposed him, as a member of both one of the Charted House and the Avryn Thirty-Two most prestigious family, to extend the invitation to a large amount of nobles and to organize a large ceremony for his marriage with Lady Bermun.
A banquet had been arranged in the courtyard behind Exeter Castle. The majestic building, more similar to a fortress than a residential house, made enough shadows to temperate the warm air. Unlikely most of the melengarian palaces, the garden had no working fortain, or bizzarely decorated brushed, or exotic flower bed, only a large perfectely cut grass were table had been arranged and attendants and waitres moved elegantly, assuring that the guest didn’t remain with their plates empty and their glasses unfilled.
Lady Simone Exeter, alongside her younger sister, was scrutting around to monitoring the situation, talking with the guests and assuring they were enjoying the meal, the music and prevented any problem that could happen.
All family of Avryn were present, included the one that in the previous years had cursed his father’s name and refused to deal with him. Then his bride’s family and all that what connected to them, which was the reason of the Lanaklin’s presence, as Valerius Lanaklin, the elder son of the Marquis, had married only two months earlier Marquis Bermun’s elder daughter. Warric and Rhennyd send a couple of knights as rapresentation.
Two years before, Samuel had been a shy young man, with no desire or possibility to partecipate in the social life of Melengar. That day, he acted self-assured, holding conversation as an expert host and party were part of his quotidianity, with straight back and attentive blue eyes. But his gaze wandered always to his wife everytime they were separate.
“I hate weddings.”
King Alric Essendon of Melengar sat at the cool of a tend, his legs elegantly stretched in front of him. He moved the fork slopply inside the plate were remained of the cake remained, splashed of cream and cherries.
“How so?” Mauvin Pickering, at his right side, eyed him. “We get to drink without worrying all day.” To underline the concept, he shook his glass, full of red liquid.
“Because it’s not about me.” Alric gestured to a waiter to bring him the tray of fruit. “Can you believe that no one has yet come to talk with me? All the attention is to Samuel.”
Alric wore a sugarcoat worth three times Samuel’s wedding dress, red brocade with the crowden falcon embroied in gold on its back. He didn’t have his crown, not his royal mantle, but his presence was still evident by the prestigious position he’d been granted to.
“Aren’t you happy to avoid political discourse for once?”
Alric pouted. “Yes, but it’s beyond the point.”
“You’re disappointed that Simone hired only male waiter.” Mauvin stole an piece of apple from the tray and threw it in his mouth. With cheeks full, he added, “I think Simone did it in purpose.”
Alric didn’t answer, but his light green eyes wandered over the crowd, nobles gathered in small groups talking and drinking. His attention focused on the noble girls group, the one around the bride, all beautiful in their colorful dresses and elaborate hairstyle and fashion small hat. None of them gave the two boy a single look.
“Will you hate your wedding too?”
“I will turn it in the talk of the century.” Alric admired the piece of apple before throwing it away. “I will have only the most esquisite food from outside. I’ll have feral beast brought from Calis only for exhibition. Musician and actors and entertainment for every single person in Melengar. I will ask Arista to contact back his friend in Westerlins for it.” He smiled. “They’ll probably write about it on the historical book, alongside my victory against Braga.”
Mauvin laughed. “And don’t forget, only female waitress.” He took a sip of wine. “Instead, I won’t mind such a small event for me. But I’d like combat and joust as a celebration.” He snapped his finger. “We may even propose a new tradition: for the marriage to be consumate, the groom must defeat a family member of the bride.”
“You say it only because nobody can beat you.”
“Hey, I may marry Arista so you will have to spar with me. It will be fun!” Mauvin beamed.
“You’re full of shit.” Alric’s lips stretched in a smile, his eyes focused on something on the grass, a cricket or a fly. Then, he asked, tone low, “Since when we start imagining our weddings party instead of our journey?”
Mauvin didn’t answer.
Alenda is stunning in her wedding dress, pearl fabric and laces and diamonds that embraces her slender body, blonde air arranged in an elaborate chiffon with thousand of small braids and white flowers, coronated with a headbands with the veil and a white rose.
Although her beauty can’t be compared to Mauvin’s mother, or even his sister, there is no one that won’t find her perfect, and theirs a good match. The couple is dashing, with Mauvin in his green sugarcoat and his dashing features and dark hair.
It is enough to consider it a profitable wedding, considering the wealthy dote Alenda brings with her. But the two has been friend since they were barely teenagers. It isn’t the love agreement between the Count and Lady Belinda, but from outside it can be considered one.
Mauvin raises Alenda’s veil and arranges it better over her shoulders. She wears a smile on her lips and embarassed red on her cheeks, but when Mauvin brushes her chin, she lifts her face and her eyes shines with expectation and happiness.
They have kissed before, since their wedding has been agreed from their parents, in the private of the hallways, stolen moment between a celebration and another. In front of the priest and the crown, it is more of a sign than a show of affection.
Alenda’s cheek are soft under his finger, her lips humid. She leans more at his touches, as she doesn’t want him to stop. He lingers too, more than it is polite, his hand still on her face, his eyes on hers. The priest is talking but they pay no attention.
“Do not undress for me tonight,” he whispered, his breath tickling her skin. “I want to have the pleasure.”
It is customary, especially for the first night, that the bride awaits for the groom in her room, not naked, no, that will take away all the pleasure, but in a simple way, with her nightshirt, and her hair down, like after a bath.
In Mauvin’s words, there is another promise. The thought that he will be the one preparing her. He sees, in his mind, that he will take off all the hairpins that kept her blond braid together, one flower after another, and her breath will increase more and more. The dress will come later, when the golden cascade is down at her shoulders.
He has more experience. Boys aren’t reserved in their adventures, and Lenare has complained about it more than once. Alenda hasn’t, which makes the entire ordeal scary and exciting at the same time.
“I won’t,” she says. “I want it to be the best night of your life.”
I have another person in my heart, he has said to her. She knows, and she doesn’t care. Marriage between nobles are often a business question. Hers, isn’t. She is marrying the man she loves, and tonight he will be hers. The other person has have him, and can have him in the future, but she will be the woman at his side forever.
Out of everyone, Lady Taya Red was enjoyed herself. She’d clapped louder during the ceremony, she’d been the first to drink at the spounses’ life, she had even dared to ask first for a dance from the king. As the music continued, she changed partner to partner until she was sure nobody had escaped from her grasps.
Only then, with a long, deep and satisfied breath, Taya slumped in one of the free chair at her brother Castor’s table.
“I love weddings!”
Castor was busy in a deep conversation with Fanen Pickering about the Melengar History, especially referring the battle of Drondil Fields. Mauvin was there too, listening and intervening from time to time. Both brothers had already danced with Taya, so the three welcomed her with just a gesture of their heads.
“I hope it’s just the first of a long list,” she continued, to no particulary one. “After all, the new generation of lords and ladies of Melengar is starting. I understand Samuel being the first, since he’s already marquis and such, but… Oh!”
Taya slammed her hands over the table. The suddend gesture made the glasses and dishes tremble, wine drops spilled on the wooden surface. The three boys jerked their heads to her, with baffled expression.
“What if the king is next?” Her voice was lower, as she bent her body towards them in a conspiratory manners, her eyes dartening from them to the king, who sat down with Lord Valin in his private porch. “Can you image? I’ve never been to a king’s wedding! It should be glorious!”
Castor frowned. “You haven’t been to a wedding before today.”
“Yes, yes.” She gestured her hand, as to snatch away a fly. “But you know what I mean. A king’s wedding is rare, princes and princesses are wed pretty early. We got an unique chance!”
Her attention focused on Mauvin’s face, expectant. “What do you say? When His Majesty will find us a queen?”
Mauvin’s face was stone for a second, at the point Fanen elbowed him. “Maybe you will be the next to wed.”
“Oh, I wish!” Taya lifted her gaze at the sky, her mouth slightly opened. Then, she crossed her arms and returned her attention to them. “But I’m afraid my father wants to marry me to one of the Jerls. You know, to keep the lands in the family. And that’s a little depressing.”
“I understand perfectly.” Mauvin nodded. The relationship between the young generation of the Jerls and the Pickerings weren’t amicable.
Taya tilted her head to the bride, in her white gown and white veil that enlightened her olive features and brown hair. She hadn’t stopped smiled once during the day.
“I would prefer to marry to someone of another country, just for a chance.” Her moment of sadness lasted a second, before another bright smile appeared on her meaty lips. “What about you two? It’s better you move, or people will steal the best ladies.”
Mauvin stretched his arms in the air. “If they choose someone else than us, I beg to differ about the definition of ‘best’.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Fanen chucked sarcastically and shook his head. “I dread for the girl that will end stuck with you.”
“What do you mean? I’m a catch!” Mauvin slapped his brother on the head, then turned to Taya. “Right?”
Taya pressed her lips together and stared at him. Tentatively, with slow words, she said, “You’re the heir of Galilin, which is the richest land of Melengar. And a member of the Thirty-Two Houses. And your aspect is very proportionate.”
Fanen patted Mauvin’s shoulder and whispered in his ears, “That’s a polite way to say no.”
“Come on!”
“I mean no offence!” Taya lifted both arms in defence. “You’re just not my type. I do prefer men more… build up and less confident. But I’m sure a lot of other ladies disagree. In fact, I heard some very good comments today. Lady Alenda was especially kind in that regard.”
“Thanks Maribor someone with good taste.”
Fanen snickered. “I’m sure she was just polite because she’s friend with Lenare.”
“Speaking about it.” Castor leaded better to his chair. He’d a pleasant smile and he’d listened all the conversation with amusement, even if he’d been ignored for most of it. “You may not be my sister’s type, but your sister is mine. Do you think I have a chance?”
Mauvin glared.
As it is customary, the King and the Queen sit in a special place during the wedding banquet. However, the guests’ attention is mostly on the newedly couples and the celebration they have prepared for the special occasion.
“Maybe we should have avoided the elephant,” Alenda whispers in Mauvin’s ear.
“Maybe. But father hasn’t let me have the competition I crave for.”
“You’ll have plenty of occasion to show your skill, dear.” Alenda smiles and duckes her head to the royal couple. “But the elephant was a competition, correct?”
It is. Mauvin can’t deny he has been a little bit itchy to show Alric he can have the best wedding ceremony. Alric, faithful to his promise, organized a feast that will be remembered for years, in Melengar and othe other places. Mauvin admits he doesn’t want to show any less. In his imagination, he and Alric will have a friendly bartender about who has have the best celebration.
However, at the moment Alric doesn’t seem interested in judging the feast. He and his queen, his wife, ignore the protocol and don’t restrain in physical affection. Their hands always lingering to the other, and when they eat they lean towards the other so their arm or shoulder brush together. Their heads are always turned together, as they whisper and giggle and smile.
It isn’t surprising: Alric married out of love, as he has always wanted. He and Mauvin couldn’t afford love expression in public, but in private Alric loves to cuddle and he earns for physical demostration of love. The fact that his wife is ready as much as him to that kind of affection is a proof their relationship will work.
Mauvin takes Alenda’s hand in his. Considering that marrying is a part of their duties, he’s happy that both he and Alric has people they love at their side.
The wine had watered down. It had been Simone’s idea, either because they couldn’t afford the right amount necessary for such a feast, and because she preferred not to deal with drunk nobles. She had been right, because some of them would have drunked themself into oblivious otherwise.
Mauvin observed the red liquid in his glass; it was getting dark, and now the dim light reflected on the surface as he turned the glass and the wine spin around. The nobles that wouldn’t remain for the night were leaving, so around him it was all a sound of goodbyes and complaints and orders around. Alric was supervising the departures, while Fanen had accompained Denek to bed, much with his complains. Farer, the sound of hissing horses and screecing carriage’s wheels.
“Weddings are nice, aren’t they?”
A hand took off the glass from his grasp and placed it on the table. Lenare sat down next to him. Her hair were still fixed and her dress had no folds, as if she’d just came out her room after preparing, instead of an entire day fo celebration. In the orange light of the sunset, she was ethereal.
“I haven’t finish drinking it.”
“Haven’t you drank enough?”
“If so, I would have throw even my guts by now.” But he didn’t grab the glass back, as he straighted better on the chair, his muscles sore for the long day of dances and eating. At her disgusted snor, he added, “Why aren’t you with the bride? Isn’t she getting ready for her wedding night?” He turned his attention to Samuel, who was bowing to one of his guest. “At least one of us will get laid tonight.”
“Well, it’s not you wedding. Not that it had been a problem for you before.”
Mauvin lay down his head and chest on the table, arms stretched fowards, but he turned his head to watch her. Lenare’s expression was impassible, her attention focused on something on the opposite side of the garden. She was purpusefully ignored the bride’s group. Samuel’s mother was among them, the eldest, while the others were all young, unwed ladies: Zendaya Bermun, Alenda Lanaklin, Simone and Sheila Exeter, among others. Even Arista Essendon was there, despite her lost expression.
“You are the lady of Galilin. You should be there as a rapresentative of the Charter.”
“The bride’s sister doesn’t like me,” she said at last, still not looking at him. “No reason to cause discomfort to Lady Toya over an irrilevant matter.”
He leaped up. “How dares she! I can’t even challenge her.”
Lenare restrained her laugh by pressing her lips together.
“Why she doesn’t like you?” Mauvin pressed. “This is an Arista doesn’t like me kinda things? Because you know Arista…”
“It’s not that Zendaya doesn’t like me as me.” Lenare shook her head. “She doesn’t like the idea her husband wanted to marry me first.”
Mauvin opened his mouth, then closed it. He re-thought the assassment a little while. “Valerious wanted to marry you? Since when? He never said anything.”
“My dear brother.” Lenare reserved him a patronizing smile. “Every single man that meets me won’t mind to marry me.”
“Yeah, sure.” Mauvin snorted. “I love you, and Maribor knows how many suitors I had to scare away, but this is too much, even for you.”
“Oh, but I can prove it to you.”
With an elegant gesture of her right arm, with the grace of a cat, she lured the attention of three boys that were heading for the palace. When they were nearer the torches, Mauvin recognized them as three older Jerls: Howard, the eldest, that hid his pointy chin behing a trim brown bear, then XXX, the second, who was as tall as him but he’d squintier eyes and no bear. And then Robin, the third, who was taller than his brothers by two inches and the only one with grey eyes.
“Lady Lenare.” Howard bowed. “Mauvin.”
Lenare accepted the greetings with a smile. “Say, My Lord, if you are told that my father is thinking of you as my possible future husband, what will you say?”
Howard froze. His cheeks under the beard reddened. His eyes dartened on Mauvin. At his side, xxx’s widened between surprise and horror.
Mauvin gestured with his hand. “Go ahead. It’s a speculative question.”
“Of course, My Lady, I will feel honored… I mean, I am the Heir of the Jerl land, and it is… But of course it is not your downry I like more, I mean…” He was babblering, tripping on his own words.
“It will cause a civil war.” That was Robin, who had barely restrained his laugh by putting both hands on his mouth. “I personally witnessed XXX talking about how would be beneficial to the family if he marries you and Howard strongly disagrees with it, because of course his marriage will be the most beneficial for the family. Mother kicked them out, complaing about them thinking with a male organ I shall not repeat.”
“Beneficial.” Lenare smirked.
“I beg your pardon.” Howard bowed, then took Robin by his right ear. Ignoring his whines, he dragged hima way. XXX blabbered something in the order of “they were just stupid chats” then run after his brothers.
As they disappeared in the dark, Lenare ducked her head to Mauvin.
“I see your point,” he grumbled. He took back his glass and gulped down the remaining wine.
“The only men unhappy at the idea of marrying me are the ones whose heart is already taken.” Lenare’s face was impassible. “Exeter. Hilfred.”
Mauvin tilted his head towards their king. He was occupied in a tight conversation with Marquis Lanaklin and Marquis Bermun. Since they disagreed with Ethereld and his imperialism view, they had intention to strenght their ties to any royalist kingdom. Lenare watched the three men with mildly interest.
However, she said nothing more.
Mauvin sulked.
Alenda’s first dance is with Mauvin, of course. Then, they exchange partners, as a gratitude gesture over their guests. The King and the Queen hasn’t joined at first, remaining in their seats and taking chance of everyone’s distraction to kiss longer and deeper.
But then the King raises, in all his glory, with his crown and his golden mantel, his hand gestures to Alenda, who bows elegantly and accepts the honor of a dance. The Queen follows his husband and it is Mauvin who takes the opportunity to a dance with her.
Mauvin remembers her during the royal wedding, with her white dress so full of diamonds it glittered like the moon. She is beautiful –of course she is, being Alric’s precious wife. Gracious, elegant, but witty. Even Mauvin can do nothing but approve of the choice, even if he and Alric has very different tastes when it cames to woman.
During all the dance, however, her eyes never wanders from his husband. Mauvin knows the gaze of someone in love, and that is it.
“I’m glad you love him,” Mauvin whispers. “He deserves someone on his side.”
“My lord.” The Queen’s voice is delicate like a nightigale. “If you were a woman, I wouldn’t accept any of it.”
No doubt what she is referring to. “If I were a woman, you wouldn’t be married to the king.”
It is probably a lie: there is a reason why, despite their strong ties, no blood relationship has never been created between the Essendons and the Pickerings. Maybe it is a lucky accident that he is a man, and that the Queen is so in love to understand.
“Then I’m glad you are not.”
The dance ends and the Queen makes a step backward, her hands leaving the lingering sensation on Mauvin’s body. She tilts her head on the side: Alric strolles in their direction but, after a conspiratory smile with his wife, he turns to Mauvin, hand stretched in invitation.
“Just give him back for the night.” The Queen smiles. “And you have a wife to take care to too.”
The ladies scurried around the bedroom, preparing it and the bride for her wedding night. Simone assessed the situation and made sure everything was in order, her sister and Alenda prepared the flowers, others supervised the servants as they lightened the candle, store the dress and so one.
Lady Zendaya Bermun, the sister’s bride and the only married girl in the room, was in charge of preparing the bride herself: she loosened her hair, brushed it as she wispered cheers and advices, while other ladies dressed her with the nightvest or brushed smelly cream in her hands and neck.
Her Royal Highness Arista Essendon just stood on the doorstep, arms crossed and a frown on her face. They’d asked her to join because it was the wedding of a member of the Charter, it would be unpolite if the royal family didn’t sent anyone for the ceremony. She hadn’t moved from her position and no one of the others had asked her to. Simone had thanked her for her presence, then she’d took charge by herself.
People scurried around Arista as if she was a piece of furniture.
“It doesn’t have to hurt,” Arista blurbed out, absently-minded, in response as something Zendaya was saying. Everyone turned to her. She mused. “I read about it. It is supposed to be pleasant. It may hurt, but it isn’t a certainty. And Samuel is kind, so…”
“Thank you, Your Highness,” Simone said.
Arista nodded and turned her head away, a slight red on her cheek. The other ladies returned their attention to the bride.
Zendaya stood up. “It’s better we go now, or Lord Exeter will get bored and go to sleep.”
“He would never. He will wait all night if necessary.” Simone placed a hand on the bride’s shoulder, and she smiled, shy, but happy.
With a relieved sigh, Arista followed the others outside the room, but when they moved away, she didn’t joined them in Simone’s living room to end the wedding with a girl talked. With a brief excuse, she run away, with the excuse of finding back her bodyguard. He’d left Hilfred at the main gate, as men weren’t allow near the bride before the night.
But when he reached there, it wasn’t Hilfred but Mauvin who was waiting for her. “Alric confiscated Hilfred for helping with the horses.”
Arista nodded, then slumpled uncerimonusly on the last step at the door. “Weddings are tiresome.”
Mauvin threw her a funny look. “And it isn’t even your wedding.”
“My wedding won’t be like thisNot so many people, not so many rules. If I ever marry, that’s it.”
“Of course you will marry.” Mauvin didn’t look impressed. “As the princess, it’s part of your duty.”
She huffed. “Sure, being exchange for political agreement. I won’t do that. If I ever marry, it’ll be for love.”
“I’m not sure it’ll be allowed.” His tone was kind, but Arista glared at him neverthless.
“Easy for you to say it, you’re a man.”
“Hey, do not think I don’t have the same problem. It’s a matter of what we rapresent for our family and kingdom.”
Arista raised an eyebrown. “Your father married out of love.”
“But yours didn’t.”
They remained in silent for a while, looking at the last remaining of people leaving.
“It’s not that I don’t want to marry for love,” Mauvin said, at last, voice low and serious, his eyes not on her. “But it’s not guarantee for us. We should try to make the best we could.” At last, he ducked his head to her. “There should be a noble boy you don’t hate, you can built something with. I can understand refusing an asshole, but we’re not all bad.”
“No one.”
“Come on! Try. Say a name. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Samuel wasn’t so bad, but he’s taken.” She frowned. “What about you? If you should decide now.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Alenda Lanaklin.”
Arista opened her mouth in surprise. “You’ve thought about it.”
“I have.” He shrugged. “I like her, and I know her for a long time. If I have to spend all my life to someone, she’s a good choice.”
His voice was toneless, so Arista studied him for a while. “Then why don’t you?” And because he didn’t reply, she added, “Oh, I’m sure she’s the one she doesn’t want you. Undestadable, you’re a menace.”
Mauvin stuck his tongue out.
All the pins takes ages to come down, the white flowers a little mountain on the bedsheet as Mauvin, slowly, meticulously, disentagles all the braids.
“Maybe this wasn’t the best idea,” Alenda says, amused, as Mauvin fights with her hair.
“You sure?”
The golden cascada is beautiful to see once freed, once she shakes her head and let the hair roams free. They covers her neck, making it irresistible. She giggles as he kisses her, slowly, placing kiss after kiss in all its lengh.
He is fasters and less gentle when it comes to take off her wedding dress, buttons and laces teared apart as he slides it down, revealing the naked shoulders and the perfect curves of her back.
Alenda stands up, helping him to free hel legs from the gown, and then she remains only with the underclothes, that enlightened the curve of her little, perfect butt.
“Take it out.”
She obeys, shy but eager, and then she turns in all her naked glory. She is beautiful, the fair skin, the muscles legs, the two small rose nipples, hard for the cold. She stands there, unsure of how proceed. Then, she raises her gaze as he observes her and she closes the space between them, closing them in a hug and kisses him.
It isn’t the simple, sweet kiss they’ve exchanged during the wedding ceremony, not the fast and amused secret ones. No, this is sensual, and full of love and desire.
She drags him on the bed, still grasping his shoulder, her golden hair flushing around.
“I want you to take me,” she says, “as you took him.”
Unaware, Mauvin’s mind goes to Alric’s first wedding night. Voices say that the king has spend the entire neight and the day after with the Queen, without them leaving their room not even for eating. And that, after that, they’ve spend every night together and days when they get the occasion. Some even suspect she may be already pregnant, giving how much time they spend in bed.
Mauvin hasn’t wanted to talk with Alric about it – they doesn’t talk about other relationship, and even less now that they’re so important. But he believes the voices: Alric is a giving lover, one that rely in the act of making love.
In his mind, he can even image how that first night went, the way Alric touched and kissed and caressed, and how pleasant was for the Queen. He wonders if she, also, touched and kissed and caressed him as Mauvin does.
“Usually, he asks me to be naked.”
Alenda smiles. “Then strip.”
Mauvin woke up in sweat, both for the warm and the tiredness of his strange dream. Outside, it was still dark. In the beds next to his, both Fanen and Denek were soundy sleepy, Fanen precising laying with both hands over his head, Denek with arms and legs spreaded to take all the space possible.
With slow and silent movement, Mauvin enlightened a candle and moved to the nearest bathroom, where he brushed his skin with a towel. Then, with the sleep that escaped him totally, he decided to take a walk.
It wasn’t his first time at Exeter Castle, but he couldn’t say he knew it well. He got lost a couple of times before reaching the destination he had in mind. It gave him the time to notice how the palace was in disarray: unlike Drondil Fields, that had remained a fortess during the century even in its interior, it had been heavly decorated but clearly Samuel hadn’t any chance to renovate. The fresco were faded, some cracks had been repaired with only a hand of mortar.
By King Amrath’s decision, the Exeters hadn’t the right for personal guards, and the few Alric had brought with him were destined to protect his apartment. So Mauvin didn’t encountered anyone in his solitary walk: some rumors could be heard from the kitchen, which gave him the idea cooks were already at work.
When he opened the backdoor for the garden, the dim light of sunrise invaded his sense. The cool air of the morning and the smell of grass invaded his sense and he breathed hard. It was so dipped in the feeling of silence that he jerked surprise at the creaking sound of steps.
He didn’t have his sword with him. But it was only Arista, in her nightdress, hair wrapped in a messy, high bun and smelly herbs wrapped in a pillow sheet.
“What in Maribor’s name are you doing here at this hour?”
She frowned. “I can ask you the same thing.”
He snorted. “Strange dream. You?”
“Oh. I…” Arista looked at her wrapped sheet. “I noticed yesterday that around the garden grown some wild herb that I didn’t find in Medford. I absolutely want them.”
“That’s not an explanation about the early hour.”
She sighed. “I don’t want anyone to notice me. It could be seen as… suspicious.”
“Because doing it in the middle of the night isn’t suspicious at all.”
He was right and she knew it, so she changed subject. “What was the dream about that you run here?”
“It was…” Definitely not something he could speak with her. And he even blamed her about it, because of their earlier conversation in which he couldn’t tell her that he wouldn’t marry for love because the person he loved was out of his league. “…Bizzarre. I already forgot most of it.”
“Fine, do not tell me.” Arista shook her head, amused. “I’m going now, or this will become very suspicious, me, you, and those strange herbs.”
“Suspicious indeed!” Mauvin laughed. But then, when she was about to leave, he called her. “Arista.”
“Yes?”
“I wish you marry for love.”
She appeared surprised, but then nodded. “Thanks.”
With nothing more to do so early, Mauvin returned to his room. Fanen and Denek were still sleeping. He blow off the candle and lie down, unable to shake off the dream from his mind.
He couldn’t pinpoint the Queen’s features, see if she was a real woman or just a nightmares. She was beautiful, of that he was sure, with dark curly hair, maybe blue eyes, perfect face, small nose. But he couldn’t describe her, not in detail. She was a fear, the woman that would take Alric from him.
But she hadn’t. Not in the dream, at last. It didn’t seem so, but Mauvin was certain that that was the most unprobable thing of all that. Wifes didn’t share. Or did they? Or was Mauvin the one that didn’t want to share?
While the dream fell away, only one thing remain clear, as if he could still see it, touch it. The moment he and Alric had shared the dance, their hands interwined together, Alric’s hand on his shoulder, Mauvin’s hand on his waist. And they did it in front of everyone, as it was normal, as it was perfect, as it was as it should have been.
He closed his eyes, forcing his imagination.
It isn’t a wedding party, just a common feast. Maybe is Wintertide, maybe Summersrule, maybe someone’s else birthday. But they are there, unwed, alone, Alric with his favorite clothes, the blue sugarcoat with laces and the white boots. People are dancing around them.
Mauvin stretches his hand.
“May I have this dance?”
Alric smiles before taking his hand.
They aren’t good dancer. Mauvin prefers other kind of physical activities and Alric avoids any kind of work that imply fatigue. It doesn’t matter. It matters the way Alric is looking at him, the way their hands interwined one to another. The way no one is batting an eye at them.
When the music ends, Mauvin doesn’t let of that hand. Keeping his eyes on Alric, he slowly brings it to his mouth and places a kiss on the back.
“Will you marry me?”
Alric tilts his head, smirking. “I don’t know. What is your dowry?”
“This.” He stretches his other hand fowards, to show Alric. There is a beating heart on Mauvin’s palm, a red, bloody heart just thrust outside his chest. The more Mauvin looks at Alric, the more the hearbeat increases. “My heart.”
“Silly.” Alric laughs. “It isn’t yours. It’s mine, I gave you years ago.”
Mauvin pressed his face in the pillow.
Wedding are good, and bad, and Mauvin hated and loved them. -
.
“…didn’t gift you one because you’re not a good rider.”
“And you are?” A snort.
“Better than you.”
“And you’re good only because you have a maranor horse. We’re back to straight one. I’ll be better with one.”
“No, you won’t.”
The Master hit him in the forefront with the pommel of his sword. “No distraction.” Then, he turned to the two riders. “Your Highnesses. You shouldn’t be out by yourself.”
The prince waved his hands dismissively. “There are no danger, we’re too near the city.
The Master frowned. He wasn’t there to be their bodyguard, but his duty imposed him to protect the royals. “We’ll come with you.”
“Oh, there’s no need.” The princess’ tone reveal her annoyance. “We will remain in sight.”
Hilfred studied her with his gaze down: she was cute as usual, with the elegance as she sat straight on her horse, the hair loose free on her shoulder, but kept away from her face with two golden pins. She noticed his stare and turned her head away in a very obvious manner. Then, before someone else complained, she yanked the rein and her horse trotted away. Her brother immediately followed her.
The master watched them running with a scold, then sighed and returned to Hilfred, lifting his sword. “Let’s continue.”
Faithful to his orders after the fire, King Amrath had provided Hilfred the best education and training he could in order to turned him in the best bodyguard for his daughter, as soon Hilfred recovered from his injuries. A year later, Hilfred had become proficient in everything, if not good. There was no hesitancy in the way he swung the sword, he could ride a horse a full trot and read complex books.
Only then the king had allowed Hilfred to stay near the princess during events or every time she’d wanted to leave the castle. She hadn’t complained anymore, but her distain of him was clear in her gaze, who was incapable of deception. Hilfred, sometimes, spotted her looking at him training in the castle courtyard and she immediately turned her head away with a snort.
It was so painful, more than all the hits his father or his bullies had given him.
In one month, the princess would attend lessons at Sheridan University. Despite being so near Medford that people could come and go during the day, the princess had asked and gained the permission to stay in the dorm with the other students.
The king had ordered so for Hilfred to remain with her all the time. It would be the real beginning of his work as a royal bodyguard and he feared it as much as he desired it. He was now making the remaining time useful to increase his skill: it was the only thing he could think of about his duty.
The master had decided to teach him better how to fight on horses: Hilfred doubted he would have the occasion, but considering that they would travel back and forth from Sheridan, the possibility of meeting bandits wasn’t entirely far-fetched, so he complied.
But now that they had seen the royal siblings going alone in the low Meadwloands, both him and the Master were distracted, even if for different reason.
“I don’t want the king at my throat because his children are unhinged.” He gestured at Hilfred. “Let’s go search for them.”
They went on separate way, Hilfred on the East, nearer the river and the border with Chawick. He remembered the princess loving the hills there, loving the sight of the land opening in front of her, especially during clear days.
As he trotted in that direction, he heard a yelp of pain, followed by a loud laugh. The voices were clearly of the prince and the princess. With a low hiss at his horse, he spurred in the direction, the whining sound increasing his worries.
They weren’t, as he expected, towards the hills, but lower, directly in the tight forest around the street. The princess’ horse was wandering free, while the prince still sat on his own, tears in his eyes as he kept laughing.
“Oh, you should have seen her,” he said, unable to restrain a smile, when she spotted Hilfred. “She fell like a potato sack, the incredible rider she is!” And he laughed again, pointing at the figure of his sister.
She was on the ground, her dress and her hair messy, cheeks wet with tears. She was breathing hard, clutching her right leg without worry about showing skin. Her ankle was bent in an unnatural position.
“Alric! Call someone! Please…”
Hilfred paled. He immediately dismounted and approached her with care.
“Oh, I’m pretty sure it’s nothing,” Alric said, dismissively.
But the ankle was definitely broken and the princess definitely hurt, because she didn’t reserve the usually disdained look to Hilfred, like she hadn’t any more strength not even too hate. He didn’t know what to do: he should bring her to a doctor immediately, but he feared he could do worse by moving her. But he couldn’t left her alone, and he couldn’t order the prince to go.
“Are you hurt elsewhere, Your Highness?”
She shook her head, frantic, without releasing her leg. She tried to speak, but what it went down was only a yelp.
“Okay.” Hilfred looked around. He yanked out two lower branches, length like a hand, then striped his shirt to create sort of a bandage. “Let me…?”
The princess seemed out of herself as he moved her hands away and created a make-up bandage for her fracture. In the meantime, the Master had reached them too. He got the situation in a second.
“Oh, no, I won’t let her ruin my day.” The prince patted his horse’s neck and then he was off.
The Master cursed under his breath. “I’ll go with him. Hilfred, bring her back to the castle.”
The princess was limp in his arms when he lifted her on his horse, and then he kept her steady with an arm around her waist as he kept the reins with the other. He could feel the warm of her body against his and the slowly breath against his skin.
Maybe it was destiny that he could be so near her only when she was hurt.
“Definitely broken,” the doctor stated.
The princess lay down to her bed, face pale, breath still hard. Her chambermaid had freed her from the more elaborated dress so they could check her health better, but besides some bruises she was fine: only her ankles was still damaged.
Hilfred didn’t have much to do, but he couldn’t feel to leave, considering that no one was kicking him out. He felt guilty about the princess’ wound: he was supposed to be his bodyguard, yet he hadn’t manage to do anything to prevent it. It was so easy to get hurt.
“I have to settle better the bones of the ankles before settling it,” the doctor explained, kind, “so it’s going to hurt a little.”
“It can’t be worse than now,” the princess repeated. “Do what you need.”
Now that they were back in the castle, she had put again the brave face, and her cheeks were again clean as she hadn’t cry for pain. But Hilfred recognized the effort she had to do to resist, the slight clench of her lips to restrain herself to whine, the twicht of her hands. She wanted to grasp the sheets but she didn’t dare, as it was a show of weakness.
Without even realize, Hilfred stepped forwards and slide his hand in hers. She didn’t even seem to notice it was him, as she leaned in him, the way she clenched it while the doctor moved her ankle. His hand was sweat, her was warm, trembling, yet Hilfred couldn’t help but savoy the moment.
That was what he wanted to do, be her anchor, be something she could rely on. He didn’t ask for more.
She didn’t let of him not even when the doctor ended his work, her ankle now strictly bandaged and tied to the bed so she wouldn’t move freely until the bandage fixed itself.
“I’ll have you prepared a sleep potion that will help you with the pain,” the doctor said, and left.
Only then, Arista looked at Hilfred, as she saw him for the first time. Then she turned, settling better her head on the pillow with a hurt snort.
But didn’t let his hand go.
When the king arrived, Hilfred leaped up from the chair near Arista’s bed with the intention of leaving, but the king shook his head.
“No, stay.”
Hilfred obeyed, but didn’t sit again. Arista was sleeping, so the king stood there, watching her with intense eyes, which narrowed as he spotted her wrapped ankle. When he ducked his head towards Hilfred, he feared he was about to dismiss him definitely from service, or even punish him. After all, even if he hadn’t been in duty service in that moment, he had been bestowed with Arista’s protection, and he’d failed.
In that moment, Hilfred didn’t know what to desire. Being near the princess was a dream for him, but the princess hated him now. And the king’s decision came not from kindness, but from the awareness that Hilfred would do anything to save Arista at the expense of his own live. It wasn’t a kindness from his part so maybe it would be better to be free from it.
Maybe the princess would hate him less if he wasn’t his bodyguard anymore.
“Stay with her,” the king said instead. “Be assured that she respects the doctor’s instruction and doesn’t leave her bed until she is healty.”
“She won’t listen,” Hilfred heard himself saying, and it was the truth. “Especially because she is supposed to start university in a month or so.”
“You act under my order, Hilfred,” the king answered, “so she will obey.”
Hilfred nodded, because what else could be done? The king didn’t care his orders would only separate Arista from him more. And to be fair, even Hilfred cared more about Arista’s safety than her feelings for him.
Once the king was out, Hilfred sat back on the chair.
Arista, after drinking the potion, was now sleeping peaceful, no sign of her past pain visible in the way her mouth stood in a tight line and her eyeline didn’t even fluttered. She lay there, motionless, the chest lifiting regularly. Even Alric had come inside and seeing her sleeping so sound complained about “the exaggeration” of her condition.
But Hilfred knew better and he was sure that, even in her sleep, she was bottling up everything. She couldn’t afford to be seeing as weak, even.
There was something intimate in watching her sleep. If they would have been in better relationship, maybe Hilfred would have touched her. Nothing over the top, of course, even in his dream he never imagine to kiss her, even on the cheeks.
But maybe he could have caress her face, a finger lining up the edge of her face until the chin, moving aside the rebel strand from her forehead. His hands itched at the thought, but he remained there, immobile like a statue.
His eyes fell on her hand. While most of her body was now covered with a blanked, her arms lay at her side, the hand opened with the palm turned on the mattress. Hilfred remembered how tight had been her clutch during the previous ordeal, the warmness of skin again skin. He was sure she wouldn’t have done it if she wasn’t delirious with pain.
Slowly, he put his hand again in the princess’ one. -
.
It was the coldest winter of all time in Melengar, they said. Snow had felt for days, at the point that the guards barely managed to keep Medford’s streets clear, and almost impossible to do the same thing in the surrounding lands.
King Amrath was forced to withdraw his invitation to the Wintertide’s celebration in Aquesta because travelling in such conditions was too dangerous. The substitute feast he planned at Essendon Castle foresaw to be small than usual too, because not every noble could be able to move from their estates. People who could preferred to stay indoors as the world became white.
Alric didn’t really mind. He loved a good party, but few people meant fewer occasions for his father to have him holding conversations, with ladies especially. The only guests that mattered were there already. And, as much as he hated the cold, he had Mauvin to warm him at night.
When Alric reached the living room of the Pickering’s wing, Lenare was sitting down near the window. With her light hair, her fair skin and her white dress, she almost looked like a snow statue, meddling with the view outside.
“Can I go?” Denek asked, moving his gaze from Alric to his sister, who nodded gravely.
With a grin, Denek abandoned his book and darted out of his armchair. He reserved a curious look for Alric before disappearing outside the room. Alric took his place in front of Lenare at the small round table.
“So, what is it?”
Even if he and Lenare had known each other since they were little, she had stopped playing with him and her brothers when she was eleven years old. Alric had with her the same confidence he had with his own sister, which was none at all. However, at least he knew how to deal with Arista. Lenare, with her composure and mannerism, was mostly unreadable, even if Mauvin and Fanen spoke of her with warmth. Alric had no idea why she wanted to speak with him in private.
Before answering, Lenare put away Denek’s book and pulled out a card deck to play Briscola. “It’s about Mauvin.”
Alric was looking at her shuffling the cards so intently that he almost didn’t hear it. “Mauvin?”
“You must put an end to it.” Lenare distributed the cards and placed the deck in the center. “To this thing you two do.”
If Alric had been more prepared, he could have denied everything. But her phrasing was so vague that his surprised face was undeniable. He knew what she meant, and she knew he understood it. He took a card and discarded another, as his frown deepened.
“It’s not your business.”
“Giving how much my brother fusses over my suitors, I should make it mine. But I don’t want to.” Her eyes didn’t leave the cards in her delicate fingers. “And yet, I need to step in.”
Fearing a threat behind those words, Alric pointed out, “We aren’t doing anything bad.”
“I’m sure that is what you think.”
“Because it’s true.”
Lenare ate a couple of the cards Alric had put down. “The root of my family’s loyalty went back to the origin of Melengar.”
“Yes.” Alric stopped with a card mid-air, surprised by the change of argument. “I am well informed of Cedric Pickelerinon’s tale. Mauvin doesn’t shut up about him.”
A bent of Lenare’s red lips lightened her features. “Those are the stories we were grown up with. And Mauvin especially, since he is the heir.”
He managed to eat a couple of her cards. “I don’t see what this has to do with Mauvin and me… having some fun.”
“I know you well enough to be certain you won’t hurt Mauvin willingly.”
“Why should I-”
“But you are his prince. He will walk in a fire if you need him to. I hope you realize it before you ask too much from him.” She dropped her last cards, not giving him the chance of a reply. “I won.”
Alric didn’t want to admit that his conversation with Lenare had bothered him. But it did, and not only because he lost the card game. Lenare might be Mauvin’s sister, but Alric was his best friend: he was sure there were things not even she knew better than him.
The insinuation that Mauvin slept with Alric out of obligation for his role was preposterous.
Not that Alric was displeased entirely by the idea. He loved that Mauvin called him ‘my king’, in and out of bed. He loved the feeling of having someone to protect his back, and someone who would be ready to cover for him without having to ask for it.
Yet, Alric was also displeased, because he was good-looking enough not to have to order people in his bed to have company. If Mauvin wasn’t willing, Alric could easily find someone else that was.
But he doubted it was the case.
Although Alric had never doubted Mauvin’s loyalty towards him, he also thought Mauvin was an ass most of the time. There were countless occasions in which Mauvin loved to mock Alric for something it happened and he took great pleasure in being the best during their activities. Alric remembered all the times he had to shut him and Fanen up by specifying that he would be king one day and they would be his subjects.
There was no way Mauvin bedded Alric only because Alric wanted it.
Or was there…?
The first day the snow stopped, Alric rushed for a ride, finally free from the castle’s walls and the constant surveillance of the guards. When he was with the Pickering brothers, he didn’t need an escort. They left Medford behind, heading towards the Gwlabyr bridge, strolling on Steward’s road.
“Of course your hands are stiff, that’s the point! To be prepared if we ever face a battle in this kind of weather.”
“I’m telling you, nobody fights if it’s so cold and snowy. Read any historical book.”
“Not everything is in books, Fanen. And the fact that it’s never happened doesn’t mean it won’t.”
Ahead of them, Alric listened distractedly to them arguing about Count Pickering’s decision to keep training them despite the low temperature. He was on Fanen’s side: training was hard enough in normal circumstances, and it took away time they could spend together – instead, Alric had to suffer through sword lessons too, because Count Pickering had insinuated Alric was not competent enough and that it was uncle Percy’s fault. So of course Alric couldn’t accept the accusation and asked his uncle to help him.
On top of that, Lenare’s insinuation was still on his mind, so he hadn’t reached for Mauvin’s room for the past nights. And he was frustrated to realize Mauvin hadn’t stepped towards him.
“I want to reach Edgar’s Pond.” His statement interrupted the discussion, because both brothers turned their heads at him. “I want to see how it is with all this snow.”
“The king said not to leave the main road,” Fanen pointed out.
“What my father doesn’t know can’t hurt him.” Alric grinned. “But if you’re too scared, you can wait for me.” He jerked the reins, so Bucefalo halted over him, then pressed his legs on its hips. He didn’t need to watch to know Mauvin had a huge smirk and was ready to follow him.
“I’m not coming!” Fanen announced, while Alric and Mauvin rushed out the road, in the vastness of white that covered all the free lands around Medford.
The run was short-coming. The snow was too fresh, not hard enough to sustain the horses’ weight. Their legs sank down, making their walk slow and dangerous. Alric felt Bucefalo slipping a little below him, probably because the was ice at the bottom.
Mauvin slowed down his horse. “I’m not even sure we could find the pond.” His head shuffled around. “Everything seems the same.”
“No. I want to see it.”
Alric snapped his gloved fingers, but he had to accept it was too risky to keep riding. With what he planned to be a fluid movement, he dismounted, but the cold had made the staff slippery. He lost his balance, ending up crashing his back on the ground. The soft snow softened the fall, but Alric found himself completely soaked with white, cold dust in every fiber.
He pressed his lips together as he heard Mauvin’s laughter above him. He ignored him, pretending his red face was for the cold, and with attention, he tried to stand up. Not an easy task, considering his legs kept sinking in the snow. He felt the snow melt on him, soaking his clothes and freezing him despite the wool fabric.
His hands were so stiff that even regaining Bucefalo’s reins became difficult. But Mauvin was there, a hand lifted towards him. Alric wasn’t beyond accepting help despite the previous mockery, and he appreciated the warm sensation of Mauvin’s gloved fingers around his wrist as he helped Alric to mount again.
“Here.”
At the first of Alric’s sneeze, while he tried not to shiver too much as he was completely soaked now, Mauvin took off his own wool coat and placed it around Alric’s shoulder to keep him warm.
After a hot bath, that Lady Belinda had ordered prepared in advance as she had expected something like that to happen, Alric finally started feeling warm again. Yet, as he stretched his leg, he thought he had no intention of moving away from the fire and from the cup of hot cocoa in his still-pained fingers. Lazily, he ate biscuits from a nearby tray.
“You should have invited me,” Denek complained, as he was freed from his schooling hours to join his eldest brothers in the living room of Alric’s private wing.
Fanen shook his head. “You are as tall as the snow. You would have sunk in it and drowned.”
“I’m a good swimmer!”
“But not a good rider, so you would have ended up like Alric, falling down like a potato sack.”
Alric lifted an unbothered gaze at Mauvin, who said that on purpose to annoy him. But more than Fanen and Denek’s snickers, his attention was lured by the fact that Mauvin had taken from the tray the last of his favorite biscuit, the chocolate one with coconut flakes.
“Give it to me.” Alric opened his palm.
Mauvin moved his gaze from him to the biscuit. “But you already ate it.”
“I like them. I want the last one too.”
“Fine.” Mauvin snorted, but moved to place it on Alric’s palm.
However, before Alric grabbed it, Mauvin retreated and stuffed the biscuit in his mouth, basically swallowing it whole. The three brothers laughed at Alric’s outrageous expression, the way he remained there with his empty palm still lifted and his mouth opened in surprise.
Boiling angrily, he sprung from his chair and trumped into his room. He ignored Mauvin’s call as he closed the door behind him. He still could hear their laughs, but he didn’t want to come out of his bedroom to kick them out.
“I can put two fingers in my throat and vomit it back!” Mauvin called.
“No, wait, there is another one! It wasn’t the last one!”
“Now it is!” Denek exclaimed, and by the sound he made, he was eating the biscuit and laughing at the same time.
Assholes, all of them. Lenare included, because she was a liar.
And yet, Mauvin was at the door of Alric’s bedroom later that night, long after dinner, with a proud expression and a small handkerchief full of chocolate coconut biscuit.
“I asked Ella to make some more.” He winked. “She couldn’t tell me no, even if it means consuming her last supper of coconut.”
Alric passed his gaze between the biscuits and the other’s face. Sure Mauvin considered it a great accomplishment because the harsh weather made the trade difficult and collecting ingredients from the South almost impossible.
Mauvin waited for Alric’s response, still smiling, as his eyes wandered from time to time inside the room, even if he didn’t make any step forwards.
“Thanks.” Alric grabbed the handkerchief with the biscuits and closed the door in his face.
Wintertide came and went.
The feast was simple, with the few suppers still managing to pass through the sea and the few nobles that dared gather in Medford. The cold weather increased to the point that his father decided to cancel his planning for Arista’s birthday, because even the Gwalibyn was freezing at that point.
Only the Pickerings would remain for a smaller dinner together, which meant other two weeks in Medford for them.
Even if the biscuits incident had been forgotten and forgiven, Alric hadn’t spent another night with Mauvin, letting other people keep him company when he felt like that. Mauvin hadn’t commented on it or on the closed door, which didn’t ease Alric’s twisting thoughts. Sometimes, he felt Lenare’s scrutinizing gaze on him and wanted to scream.
He needed it sorted out.
“Come to my bedroom tonight.”
And as he whispered that in Mauvin’s ear, he received a big smile in response, which eased his fear a little.
When Mauvin arrived, he didn’t knock at the studiolo’s door, nor at the living room’s door, heading directly for the bedroom. So he flinched when Alric greeted him in the dark of the living room, his body only slight lightened by a candelabra placed on the table next to him.
“Hello.”
The surprised expression turned into a grin, then Mauvin placed down his own candle as his gaze passed all over Alric’s body. “You should have warned me you wanted to sneak out, I would have come prepared.” He only wore loose pants under a blue wool nightdress.
“I don’t. Not with this cold.” Alric overlap his leg and settled better in his armchair: it wasn’t a throne, but close enough, and he sat there elegantly as a crown prince should. “I just want to try out my Wintertide present.”
His clothes were great, perfect for the big feast in Aquesta, white silk and white ermine fur with golden embroideries and laces, closing his neck and wrists in what, in the dim light, glittered as sunrays. Alric stretched his leg forwards, showing the delicate curve of his ankle, carved in the elegant white boot.
“How do I look?”
“Beautiful.”
This time, nothing but honesty in Mauvin’s tone, not mockery. A second later, he bent his knee.
“My King.”
Alric held his breath as Mauvin’s hand slid on his calf, sagging the boot’s fabric. He pushed it a little towards him, like he wanted to kiss it. Instead, he slowly put it out. His fingers brushed Alric’s bare ankle. With an elegant movement, Alric let him dispose of the other boot too.
The wooden floor was cold. Mauvin hurried to collect the slippers, abandoned near the other armchair so that Alric could stand up.
“Attend me,” Alric ordered.
Without a word, Mauvin began his work. He had undressed Alric many times before, but there was something more for Alric as he observed the other’s fingers untie the laces one after another. It wasn’t the urge of a lover, but the delicate movement of a servant. Alric ordered it and Mauvin obeyed.
He let Mauvin give just a brief look at his naked body before covering it with his nightshirt.
“That’s all.”
He had only stepped inside his bedroom when Mauvin grabbed him, one arm around the waist and the other placed on the door to keep it open.
“Teaser.” Lips were on Alric’s collarbone, tongue licking the neck until the nape.
“Don’t touch me.” Alric’s tone was low, but firm, despite his increasing desire. “Let me go.”
He had expected more resistance; instead, Mauvin released him immediately. Alric stumbled forwards, putting distance between the two. With his hand on the collar of his nightshirt, he turned to face Mauvin. The fire cast shadows on his sharp features, but he didn’t appear angry. More resigned.
“I’ll leave if that’s what you want,” he said. “But you’re skittish those days. Do you still want me or not?”
The question was so straightforward that Alric found himself answering honestly. “Do you indulge me out of obligation?”
“Obligation?” Mauvin blinked.
“It was brought to my attention that your loyalty towards the royal family may come in different aspects. Including please your prince.”
“Brought to your attention,” Mauvin repeated, slowly. “By whom?”
“Your sister.”
Mauvin huffed. It was a low sound, a mix of annoyance and incredulity, that fast became full laughter, one that brought tears to his eyes.
“And you believe her?” he managed to ask, his arms pressing his stomach.
“Not… really. But there are… situations. And I don’t need it. I-”
Alric didn’t end the sentence, because Mauvin was on him, lips against lips. He barely registered the nightshirt being torn off his shoulder, the slippers slipped from his feet as Mauvin pushed him down the mattress over the red blankets of the bed.
His attempts to wriggle away were futile, as Mauvin pinned his wrists together and towered upon him, knelled down at his side.
“Let me go,” Alric said, low.
“Nope.” Mauvin grinned. “You’re my prisoner now, and a pretty cute one too.” He tapped Alric’s nose with the index finger of his free hand, the one that slowly slipped onto Alric’s chest.
With an irritated groan, Alric kicked him, with the only result of helping Mauvin spread his legs better, the hand placed on his calf so that Alric was completely opened and constricted.
“Let me go!”
This time, Mauvin obeyed. He released his grips from wrists and leg, but he remained there, knelled on the mattress between Alric’s opened legs. When Alric barely lifted his head to glare at him, he noticed Mauvin didn’t seem angry or sad or even ashamed. There was a smug smile, like a ‘gotcha’ expression.
He said, “You love being in charge.”
Alric pressed his lips together. “I- Yes.”
Mauvin bent forwards, placing his hands at both sides of Alric’s head, his face so near Alric could feel his breath. “Then command me, my king.”
There was a pause, a moment for Alric to hold his breath, but nothing could be done now. He loved so much when Mauvin said that, and after all, he gave him plenty of time to step back, didn’t he?
“Kiss me. Slowly. A hand on my hair.”
There was another amused grin, before Mauvin lowered his head, his lips on Alric, his fingers brushing upon Alric’s long hair slowly, giving Alric plenty of time to correct his moves if he’d like.
“Lick my neck, no, a little down, yes, just like that… Don’t move the hand please…”
It was overwhelming how his requests were obeyed for his own pleasure, and how Mauvin’s touches and kisses matched his desire entirely. The voice escaped Alric’s when he was about to come, it was hard to find words, yet Mauvin was an ass enough to stop touching him until Alric wasn’t calm enough to order him again, to be penetrated with two fingers before giving Mauvin the permission to suck him until he orgasmed.
“Just fuck me,” he exhaled, painting, his chest covered with his sperm.
“About time!” Mauvin laughed, annoyance fake in his tone.
Alric hadn’t noticed how hard he was, the erection pressed against his pants. For a second, Alric thought of stopping him, of having him undressed entirely, but both of them waited enough.
Besides, he was going to be a merciful king.
No more orders for Mauvin. Alric closed his eyes and enjoyed the pleasant feeling of the thrusts, the low moaning, the pressure of Mauvin’s hands on his hips.
There was no way Mauvin didn’t want this.
Didn’t want him.
“The fire…” Alric exhaled once Mauvin was finished, and the warmth of pleasure was slowly replaced by the cold of the bedroom now that the fire wasn’t taken care of. “Put some wood there.”
Mauvin chuckled and coughed, still caught in his own orgasm, the face pressed against Alric’s chest with his hair tickling him. “You’re so bossy.”
But he stood up and did what he had been asked, throwing some wood on the fire, which immediately brightened and warmed, before taking back the candelabra and the lamp, that was placed on the night table. In the meantime, Alric had covered himself with the sheets. Mauvin joined him, surrounding him with his arms and placing his head in the curve of Alric’s neck.
“You’re stupid.”
“That’s not the way to address your king.”
“It is when you deserve it.” Then, when Alric remained silent, he added, “I already know you like being in charge. If that’s what pleases you, I’m fine with it. But I don’t do this,” and he kissed his neck, “out of obligation.”
Alric snuggled nearer, still not looking at him. “But you’d like to do something different, maybe.” His mind wandered back to how Mauvin had pinned him down easily on the mattress, and he shivered. “Like… you know… kidnapping me or something so I would have to do what you ask for…”
“Not really.” Mauvin hummed, his lips still on Alric’s skin. “But I won’t mind saving you if you are kidnapped.”
“Oh, you sure like playing hero, don’t you?”
“Well, let’s say a group of highwaymen catch you on the field and bring you to their lair. I will follow their trace and storm inside, my sword ready. Then I will kill all of them.”
“How many?”
“Let’s say… ten.”
“You’re going to kill ten men all by yourself?”
“You’re right. Ten are too few. Twenty.”
Alric emitted a strangled sound, that should have been a laugh, but he was too amused to do it properly. Mauvin ignored him as he continued, “and then I’ll free you and you’ll be like ‘thank you so much, I don’t know what I would have done without you! How can I reward you! I’ll do everything for you’.” The last part was said in a high-pitched voice that didn’t sound like Alric’s at all.
“You’re so full of shit.” At that point, Alric’s stomach hurt from laughing. “You read too many of Denek’s children’s books.”
“I don’t remember Denek’s books end with the princess in distress stripping her dress and kneeling down to suck off her hero,” Mauvin commented, in a so serious tone that made Alric laugh again.
“You’re assuming I’ll be so stupid to be kidnapped first.” Alric rolled, so they were face to face now, their naked bodies pressed together. He caressed Mauvin’s neck with his index finger. “But if you really fight twelve men for me and win, I may indulge your request. But I step out by this promise if they’re nineteen.”
“Feathers, you’re so demanding.” But Mauvin was grinning, and then he was kissing him again.
Arista’s birthday came and went. It was a sad, pathetic little thing, no different from any dinner they had together but from the presence of a birthday cake and presents. However, it was the perfect excuse for Alric to spend the remaining time with Mauvin and make up for his lost time because of Lenare’s attics. He felt in such a good mood that he indulged more than one smile in his sister’s direction.
But then, it was time to say goodbye. He would see the Pickerings again for his own birthday, in March, and of course, that one would be ten times better, with no snow and the first, warm rays of spring.
On the day of the Pickerings’ departure, Alric found Mauvin playing a game of Briscola in his family’s living room, with no one else than Lenare. None of the two did much than a look from the corner of their eyes at his entrance, but Mauvin called for him to come near with a small gesture of his hand.
To make a point, Alric slid both hands down Mauvin’s chest, hugging him from behind, and looked Lenare straight in the eyes. She raised an eyebrow, indifferent and unsurprised, before returning her attention to the cards. She was clearly winning.
With an annoyed sigh, Mauvin threw his remaining cards on the table. His fingers brushed the back of Alric’s left hand. “My luck lies elsewhere.”
Lenare collected back the cards to shuffle them. “If you call it luck.”
“Very few people would consider a prince’s friendship unluckily,” Alric pointed out.
“Friendship,” Lenare repeated toneless.
Mauvin became rigid under Alric’s arms. “You’ll stay out of it this time, sister.”
She was totally unashamed and unimpressed as she looked straight at him. “And you’ll stay out of it when Lord Inger’s son comes this summer for a marriage proposal?”
“Lord Inger? Come on! The man can’t hold his own cock to take a piss, let aside a sword.”
“Don’t be so vulgar.” Lenare bit his lips to restrain a smile, while Alric snickered openly. “But yes, you’re right.”
“Of course I am. It’s not my fault no one deserves you.”
“And it’s not my fault I can see your future more clearly than you.” She stood up after placing the cards back in their wooden custody. “But don’t worry, I’ll be more than pleased to rub it at you when he,” her chin lifted barely towards Alric, “breaks your heart.”
“I won’t,” Alric stated, but Lenare turned her back and strolled outside the room with grace and elegance, without looking back. “I won’t,” he repeated, this time addressing Mauvin.
He took a while to answer back. “Of course not.” But there was some distant look in Mauvin’s eyes that Alric couldn’t figure out. It lasted a long minute, before Mauvin took one of Alric’s hand and kissed it, his eyes bright again.
Yet, there was a small unease on Alric’s part, which he again blamed Lenare for. He’d feared he was hurting Mauvin by forcing him into a situation in which he didn’t want any part, but Mauvin had long cleared it wasn’t the case. So, what was Lenare fearing?
“I would never. You know. You’re my best friend.”
Mauvin kissed his hand again. “I know.” A little smile. “She’s trying to get at you again. Stop worrying. Nothing you ask me will break my heart, because I’ll do it willing.”
Alric moved aside from him and sat back in the chair Lenare had left. “And I would never ask you something you won’t be ready to do, I promise.”
And in the same moment he pronounced those words, he knew it was a lie. There was one thing, just that only thing, that he would order sooner or later. Probably later. His father was young, so Alric guessed many years as a prince were yet to come. But the moment would come. Alric could only hope that, for that moment, they would be ready.
“I promise,” he repeated, to which Mauvin only nodded.
Alric wondered if Mauvin realized the lie. And if he realized that his wouldn’t be the only heart to break. -
.
The water level was dangerously high. Hadrian, floating, his weapons and wet clothes dragging him down, stared at the ceiling as if it had personally offended him. Royce emerged, his mouth opened to catch the air after so many minutes submerged.
“I have a good news and a bad news.”
“First the bad news.”
“I can’t open the door.” He was irritated by it. “It’s not because of the water, the lock is just unbreakable. Da Vinci knew what he was doing. Damned dwarf…” Then, he raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Oh, nothing. I just though the bad news was the fact we flooded the room we’re supposed to protect from the flooding.”
“I didn’t think I needed to point out that. You’re not stupid. Well, not so much, at least.”
“I admit I don’t feel very intelligent in this moment.” Hadrian coughed water out his mouth. “I also have a good news and a bad news.”
Royce frowned. “Wait, you haven’t asked me my good news.”
“Because there isn’t any.”
“Not true.” Royce patted his cloak, where now was placed a closed, rounded box. “I get Da Vinci’s projects.”
“Unless it is written there how to go out from here, I don’t consider it a good news.”
“Well, you grumpy, let’s hear your good news then.”
“The water had stop flooding, so we won’t die drowning.”
Royce send a concern look to the slot they fell from, with the thought of Gwen still on the other side in his mind. “Good to know that the only death that awaits us is now suffocating for lack of oxygen.”
“Yeah, that was the bad news.”
Their bickering helped Hadrian not to drown in despair. In his career, especially since Royce had become his partner in the musketeers, he had come near to death many times, so it was kind of a habit. But for the first time the situation appeared irremediable and the presence of Gwen with them worsened the feelings of despair.
He was about to speak, when Royce tilted his head. “What?”
He never got an answer: a whirlpool formed in the water in front of them, first smaller, then it increased until it pulled them with it. There was little to grab in the room and, in any case, the force of the water was too strong. They were both dragged with the flow, through the room’s portal now opened. Hadrian braced himself from the impact, his body slammed first against a wall, then flew in the air and crashed back in water again.
Hadrian fumbled, agitating his arms to stay on the surface, but there wasn’t a close ceiling upon him, only the clear dark sky. In the dark around, he recognized one of Venice’s canals, the little one just behind the palace they had sneaked in. He rolled around in the water, trying to point out Royce’s figure.
“Royce!”
“I’m here…” The tone indicated that he was alive, but not at best of his condition. Hadrian saw that he was floating a couple of meters from him.
Hadrian made two stroke in his direction when dark gondola appeared from the corner, the little lamp illuminated only a portion of it. Two people were upon him, one that rowed and the other with a foot on the wood, searching the water. Only when he bent down to reach for Royce Hadrian recognized him.
Ballentyne.
“Thanks, boys.” In his hand was now the box with Da Vinci’s projects. “I would never grasp it without your help. You really were the best.”
“Let it go,” Royce murmured once Hadrian joined him, Ballentyne’s gondola sailing from them, with him still laughing maniacally at his victory. “We can steal that back from that idiot in a flash, and it wouldn’t be half hard that this. We need to get Gwen.”
Hadrian nodded. He grabbed Royce by the armpit and dragged him on the bank. Royce shook his head as he was a cat. In the flood, he’d hit his head and now a small bump was on his forehead, but when he stood up, his legs didn’t tremble. And his steps were secure as he marched back at the building’s entrance, with Hadrian following him.
But once there, with the front swamped by Governor De Lur’s soldiers, Royce halted at the sight of a unconscious woman in one of the soldiers’ arms. Even from afar, she was completely soaked, her dark hair loose dripping water.
When the soldier shook his head, Hadrian realized Ballentyne had stolen from them much more than the projects.
***
His mother left him with a list of recommendations and advices.
His father, instead, gave him only a recommendation: not looking for Luis Guy Seret.
Despite the grieving and understandable desire of revenge, there was no point of making even more of an enemy of the head commander of Cardinal Saldur, one of the France most powerful men. For the time being, the focus should be on making a name for himself and join the musketeers as a defender of French monarchy.
Mauvin had every intention to respect his father’s will.
But then, like fate was joking with him, their paths intertwined by accident. Mauvin had just dismounted from his horse to find an accommodation for the night when he spotted Luis Guy.
Paris was the biggest city of France, it should be difficult to meet people by mistakes, and yet here it was. His face was unmistakable in Mauvin’s memory.
Luis Guy dressed in black and red clothes, the church’s colors, and mounted a muscular black stallion with decorated reins. At both his side, two of his soldiers, dressed in the same way and with a light armor. Their walk was leisure but steady, an indication they weren’t in a hurry but with a destination in mind.
I’m not crossing his path, Mauvin thought, but it doesn’t hurt just to be informed of his whereabouts, right?
He would face him sometimes, especially if he managed to join the musketeers, so having information on his opponent was a wise option.
Mauvin’s horse was tired by the long journey that had brought Mauvin from the far province of Gascony to the France capital and it wasn’t used to trot in the crowded street of Paris. Even Mauvin wasn’t used to be around so many people: running after Luis Guy and avoiding crashing on people blocking his path.
A thug stopped his run as someone grabbed him by the collar. Self-conscious, Mauvin wriggled free with the result the man responsible fell on his back on the mud road.
“Dear God, look what you did!”
Mauvin raised an eyebrow, perplex, as he fixed the collar of his shirt. He was the one who had been grabbed first.
“How do you intend to clear your mess?” The man said. He stood up, observing his clothes and hands dirtied with mud.
“My mess? You grabbed me!”
“Of course I do!” The man gestured at two women behind him. “That was your doing?” And since Mauvin kept looking with a very puzzled expression, the man added, “in your running you stepped on this fine lady’s gown and spill wine on the other fine lady there.”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” Mauvin said with sincerity, even if, he thought, much could have been avoided if people remained out of the street.
“And, in the end, you even ruined my clothes. They were the best I have, you know.”
“Really?” Mauvin observed him from head to toe and his incredulity was clear in his tone. He looked over his shoulder: Luis Guy wouldn’t be on sight for longer, so he rummaged in his pocket and took of a silver coin, one of the few his parents reserved for him. “Buy another one.”
The man reddened. “Do you think that’s enough?”
“I don’t think laundry takes more.”
The women behind snickered, which didn’t raise the man’s mood. A second later, he took off his glove and threw it in the ground.
“If you refuse to repay for your wrongdoing, I don’t have any choice but to challenge you,” the man said. “In Place Sainte Germain, at twelve o’clock. You may have not enough money to clean my clothes, so you’ll clear my honor.”
A duel on his first day in Paris wasn’t what Mauvin had planned but he would be damned if he stepped back by a challenge, even if the man in front of him didn’t appear formidable at all. He grinned: he hadn’t use his sword on the journey and it itched to be put on service.
“Fine by me. But now I have to go.”
By the time he resumed his pursue, Luis Guy and his men were nowhere to be seen.
“Why not?”
After meeting so many noble folks, it was still a mystery for Hadrian how many of them were at the top of their society. As much as he liked Viscount Albert Winslow, he worried about his wellbeing most of the time.
“I don’t see why I have to fight a guy I don’t even know and that he doesn’t do anything to me.”
“Because we’re friends and friends do favor to others?”
“Let’s not become too excited.” Royce snorted. “We’re acquaintances at best.”
“After all the good affairs I provided you!” Albert cried dramatically, hands waving around.
Royce was impassible. “You gained as much as us.”
“Well, recently my income decreased substantially. At least you may aid me in other ways.”
The situation was desperate if Albert had the guts to argue with Royce, who usually was able to shut up loafers with only a glare. And if it didn’t work, Alverstone is a good alternative Hadrian decided to intervene before it came to play.
“You’re supposed to know King Amrath forbade duels in Paris. Why you asked for it?”
“I had no choice! I was trying to convince those two fair and very rich ladies to sponsor me. They won’t if they think I can’t stay for my honor.”
“So fight for it.” Royce lifted his glass in a cheer.
“I can’t! You know I never got sword lessons!”
“Guess you’ll die, then, but with your honor intact.”
Albert was sweating, pacing around, and Hadrian wondered how he didn’t realize there was no way to convince Royce. “I don’t even have a sword!”
“Well, that’s easily amended, Hadrian can lend you one of his.” He smiled pleasantly. “And people said I’m not kind.”
Albert’s shoulders slumped down and when he turned again to Hadrian he had that expression as a kicked puppy, mouth bent down and chin dipped. Hadrian knew on the spot that he was doomed, but then Albert scored the final point.
“I’m going to die. Even if that guy is awful, he can’t be worse than me. How will you feel after? Will you at least come to my funeral?”
“You don’t have money for a funeral, Albert,” Royce said.
Hadrian sighed deeply. “Fine, I’ll do it.”
“Oh, no.” Royce rolled his eyes, while Albert hugged Hadrian, faking heavy sobbing and muttering gratitude words. “Why are you always like this?”
“Listen, it’s hard to feel this useless, okay? Albert is right. At least I can help a friend.”
Royce grimaced. “He’ll die with a stab in his back nevertheless sooner or later, but do you do.” He stretched his arms, gulped down the remaining of his drink and stood up. “Let’s go, then. We won’t be late.”
“Wait.” Hadrian frowned. “Are you coming too?”
“Sure. How can I be there to say ‘I told you so’ when you two got arrested by the Cardinal’s men if I wouldn’t be there?”
Place Sainte German was a small square with only one access entry created by two-store tall residential houses, with balconies in all the length of the second floor. It was the perfect place for a duel, giving people wide spaces to observe the two contestants.
Mauvin was getting exciting. He had his sword pulled out for exercises even before his opponent arrived, followed by two other men.
“I saw you at least were polite enough to show up,” the Viscount introduced himself. “As it is within my rights, my good friend here we’ll fight in my stance.” He gestured at the big, blond man at his right, who was definitely a brute fighter, at least judging by the three swords he brought with him.
He frowned. “That’s your foe? But it’s a kid!”
“I’m not a kid!” Mauvin protested. He was twenty-one, while his father joined the musketeers at sixteen. He already waited too much to made a name for himself.
Ignoring Mauvin’s outburst, the other man, the one with black hair and black cloak, shook his head. “How low you fell, Albert, fighting a kid.”
“I’m not a kid!” Mauvin repeated, his rapier fending the air with elegant movement as he stretched his arms, getting ready. “My name is Mauvin Pickering and I didn’t pick any fight, but for sure I can end it. With any of you.”
“You’re not from here,” the black cloak man stated.
“I arrived today.”
“You sure don’t lose time.” Then, at the blonde man, he added, “be fast, it’s almost lunch time. And I want that bottle of Montemorcey Albert promised me.”
“I don’t understand why I’m the one fighting but you’re the one taking the reward.”
“You can afford by yourself that cheap ale you like to drink.”
The blonde man shook his head. “I’m Hadrian Blackwater, and this fine and funny gentleman is Royce Melborn, my second. He’s here mainly to judge me.” He drew the sword on his right side, the long one. “Well, I’m sorry about this, but Albert is a friend…”
Mauvin stopped his arm and lowered his rapier. The names turned in his head and fell down slowly. “You’re the two Musketeers!”
“Were,” Royce snorted.
“I heard about you. My father used to be a musketeer too. To be honest, I’m in Paris to become one.”
The musketeers were the personal soldiers of the French royal family, known for their skill and the difficult tasks they accomplished. Becoming one wasn’t an easy achievement. Among them, Blackwater and Melborn (surname: Riyria) were the best, at the point they were called ‘the Two Musketeers’ as it was a role assigned only to them. Mauvin grew up with the tales of their victories.
“Too late for them. I mean, even if you weren’t about to die soon, it’s not profitable to be one these days, nor safe.”
“What my buddy is trying to say,” Hadrian said, with a glare at Royce, “is that they don’t hire musketeers anymore. They cut the funds to give everything to the Cardinal’s guards. And to be honest, recently the salary is shit.”
Definitely a news that didn’t arrive in the countryside. “Well, then,” Mauvin said, stretching his shoulder. “If I can’t become a musketeer, at least I can fight one.”
He put himself in position, but the chance to charge never happened. Royce turned his head away as the sound of steps filled the air. Twenty soldiers with the Cardinal’s color trotted in the plaza, leading by a man mounting a black stallion, and surrounded the three men.
“Sentinel Thranic, what a pleasure,” Royce commented.
Thranic perked from his horse, a sneer on his face. “How low the Musketeers fell. A duel against the rule of His Majesty.” Then, he straight up and addressed the entire square. “Everyone involved in this is under arrest by his eminence’s orders.”
“Just a second.” Royce turned to Hadrian. “I told you so. Now defeat them and the kid so we can have lunch.”
The moment he finished the sentence, other twenty soldiers joined the first group, closing any escape route and blocking their movement better. Hadrian shuddered and smiled apologetically. Royce rolled his eyes.
“Okay, new plan. We let them arrest us.”
“For real?” Mauvin asked, incredulous. He still had his sword out, while Hadrian sheathed his own.
“Hey, at least they feed you in prison.”
The Two Musketeers turned to face the soldier so they could disarm them, while the Viscount, Mauvin noticed, had conveniently disappeared in the crowd. He didn’t plan to get arrested on the first day, but… The moment a soldier approached him to take away the reaper, his body reacted by itself.
Maybe it was because they wore Luis Guy’s colors, maybe it was the long time since his last swordfight, but instead of deliver his sword, Mauvin launched an attack.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Royce rolled his eyes. “I’m out.”
Hadrian watched him slipping between two horses, using their vicinity and his speed at his advantage to break through the siege.
The Cardinal’s soldiers’ response was immediate, as they unsheathed their swords in unison. “Kill them all!” Thranic ordered, with the satisfaction of someone that got what he wanted.
Hadrian had no choice: he used the hand he was extending to grab the nearest soldier’s wrist and giving him a good kneeing. He then recollected the fallen sword as the soldier fell to parry another attack. Hadrian sliced his way to the soldier that owned his swords.
“Sorry, those are mine.”
Not very elegant, Hadrian knocked him up with a first. He didn’t have the time to strap back his spadone, but he felt better with the familiar weight of his blades. They had been his best friends for years and, as much as he tried to escape for that life, fighting was what he succeeded in.
Forty soldiers were a little bit too much even for the legendary Blackwater of the Musketeers, and definitely not the best way to recollect back his training. The Pickering kid was holding his ground – it wasn’t a lie that his father had been a musketeer to.
Hadrian lifted both hands and blocked two soldiers. A twist of his wrists and they were disarmed, then he pulled out one of them with a kick. He heard steps behind him and turned as another soldier rushed in his direction. Hadrian might stop him at the price of letting his back uncovered. Then a familiar cry of pain said to Hadrian he was safe.
As he turned after defeating another opponent, he saw Royce with Alverstone drawn and already bloodied.
“Weren’t you leaving?” Hadrian grinned. “You can’t live without me, right?”
Royce glared. “I want to be the one to kill you.”
They moved back to back, their weapons raised. Slowly, Mauvin retreated to their direction, until the three of them formed a group surrounded by black and red soldiers. Thranic was the only one still on his horse, but he appeared less sure now that they were holding their ground.
Royce smirked. “The one who defeats less soldier pays for lunch.”
“With which money?” Hadrian asked.
“The one I’m stealing from that idiot,” Royce replied and he stepped in Thranic’s direction.
Most of Mauvin’s battles had been one to one against his father. There had been some occasions with Fanen joined them, or some father’s friends passing by, but that was Mauvin’s first really group fight. And together with the Two Musketeers no less!
Mauvin was loving every moment.
His rapier cut thought the air in elegant motion, it clanged against the soldiers’ swords as Mauvin danced in the square, parrying and slicing and breaking the opponents that tried to stop his path. The familiar sound of blade against blade around him told him Hadrian and Royce were faring well enough.
From the balcony and around people started gathering to witness the battle; their cheers underlined any hit score from Mauvin, Hadrian and Royce, so who they were rooting for was pretty clear. Some public was caught inside the square, but the more the three fend off Thranic’s man, the more they advanced, trusting themselves to observe the battle nearer.
After defeating another soldier, Mauvin caught sight of a young man with delicate features and light brown hair at his shoulders. His green eyes and his mouth were opened in silent awe. Despite the sword too big for his size strapped at his belt, he didn’t make any move to join the fight, remaining near a doorstep as an escape route.
“Enjoy the show?” Mauvin beamed at him.
The man blinked, surprised to be addressed directly, and then his face reddened in silent outrage.
Cute, Mauvin thought.
A soldier dashed towards Mauvin, who dodged and tripped him, then kicked away the sword and, at the same time, parried the slash from another one.
“Hey, I’m trying to have a conversation here,” Mauvin protested in amusement, without breaking eye contact with the other man. “So, what’s your name? Are you free for lunch?”
“Maybe it’s better you keep attention to your opponent,” he said, with a frown.
“I prefer keep attention to you,” Mauvin replied. His rapier cut the forearm of a soldier. “Just give me a minute. Unless you’d like to give me a hand.” He dashed towards and the two soldiers coming for him crashed one into another. “Can you even draw that sword?”
“Of course I can!”
Mauvin peered out to cut a soldier’s belt: his pants lowered and he tripped on himself. “Then maybe we can have a friendly spar later.”
Two soldiers remained in front of him but none of them appeared happy to attack, giving the states of their comrades. As Hadrian and Royce finished their own battles, they preferred a retreat. Mauvin turned and smiled.
“I’m all yours.”
The other raised an eyebrow. “Are you always this cocky?”
“Only on Thursday,” Mauvin replied. “Or when I want to impress someone.”
“I guess it’s Thursday today, because I am definitely not impressed.” The man reserved him a patronizing smile. “It takes a lot more than a few swings of a sword, here in Paris.”
And with that, he left.
The last soldier fell on his ass as the slash from Hadrian’s part disarmed him and the strength unbalanced him. He passed the gaze between Hadrian and Thranic, whose face had twisted more and more with the increasing number of his defeated force. Then, the man spotted Royce, who ambled in his direction, the tip of Alverstone dripping blood.
With a scream, the man scrambled away. It wasn’t the only one: those still able to move were leaving as fast as they could, clogging up the only available street. Thranic watched that mortified retreated with a disappointed look, but the expression that prevailed was the rage when his eyes returned on Hadrian and Royce.
“The Cardinal will be informed of your disrespect, be assured of it.”
“Don’t kill him, Royce,” Hadrian whispered to his friend, who grimaced.
“I didn’t plan to. Well, not in front of everyone, at least.”
They watched Thranic trotting away as he hadn’t just been defeated by only three men. He wasn’t far enough when the crowd around and on the balconies started chanting “Musketeers! Musketeers! Musketeers!” adding another layer of disgrace at the entire battle.
Hadrian sheathed his swords and raise a hand in greeting at people. “I almost forgot this feeling.” A smile tugged his lips unwillingly.
“Oh, the time we can scrounge meals and drinks everywhere.” Royce pulled up his dark hood.
Hadrian scolded. “You really have this particular talent of ruining the poetry of everything.”
“I called it being realistic.”
“The polite way of saying you’re an ass.” Ignoring him, Hadrian strode towards Mauvin.
He was unarmed and was cleaning his dirtied rapier with a piece of fabric tore up from a soldier’s uniform. His eyes were still focused on the door where the boy he was talking to had disappeared.
“You got it bad, huh.”
Mauvin shrugged unashamed. “Not all battles are as easy as a swordfight.” Satisfied with his cleaning, he threw away the piece of clothes tapped the tip of the blade against Hadrian’s chest. “So, shall we resume our duel?”
“Well…” Hadrian looked around. “Albert isn’t here anymore, so I guess his honor is already lost. I think I can call this a day.”
“Oh, fine.” A disappointed snort, then Mauvin sheathed his sword. “It’s been fun, fighting with you.”
“You have a place to stay?” Hadrian asked, polite.
“Not yet. I just arrived in Paris when I got caught in following Luis Guy and then this entire duel affair…”
“Luis Guy?” Royce flanked Hadrian’s side. “Good choice of enemies, if you want to live shortly.”
“He-” Mauvin stopped and made a coy smile. “I have ambitious.”
“A polite way to say suicidal wishes,” Royce replied. “Do you also have coins?”
“Something.” After rummaging in his pocket, Mauvin counted ten silver coins in his palm.
Royce snatched them from his palm and made them clank before making them disappear with a swift movement of his fingers. “They’re enough. Come, you’ll stay at our place.”
Their place turned out to be a hovel. And not even theirs. Apparently it was a former abbey that, after burned down, had been rearranged in a two-rooms and a stable and delivered to the last living monk that had refused to live and spend most of his time copying books on parchments. The rooms were filled with scrolls and candle stump sat the point that walking inside was a challenge to dodge.
“This is Myron,” Hadrian introduced the monk to Mauvin. “Myron, Mauvin.”
Myron’s handshake was firmer than Mauvin expected from such a thin and shy man. “Welcome! Please take a seat…” As Royce and Hadrian sat in what were probably their reserved chairs, Myron observed intently the others, where columns and columns of parchments were piled up. “Okay, you can stay here,” he decided, taking a handful of strolls. “Just let me move from here LISTA DI LIBRI.”
“Thanks.” Mauvin sat down in a chair that screeches dangerously under his weight and felt that his family’s farm was a noble residence in comparison. He’d thought the musketeers would have some personal accommodation at the royal palace.
“He’ll stay with us for some time beings,” Hadrian informed Myron, while collecting a bottle from the floor al checking if there was still something inside. “At least until he gains back what Royce stole from him.”
“Oh.” Myron looked around, reflecting on the matter. “I’m sure we can find some space… somewhere.”
Royce was rummaged on a cabinet, frustrated. “There is still a free corner on the other room.”
“No, I used it to store the Antapodosis.”
“The attic?”
“I had to rearrange all the Erodoto's hisotia so there’s not space anymore. I do think there may still a place in the stable…” Myron patted his bottom lip. “Ah, no, not if you need the place for another horse to… Don’t worry, I’ll find a spot. Maybe I can move the entire Carmina Burana collection over the Frank Villain collection.”
“Are we sure this is safe?” Mauvin asked, eyed at one candle very near a pile of books.
“No incident has ever occurred to us.” Royce resigned that no more wine was on the house. “Here, Myron, go buy me Montemorcey.” And dropped the coin on the monk’s palm.
“Maybe something to eat too,” Hadrian added.
“Won’t be better move all this books on, you know, a real library?” Mauvin lifted a parchment that had impromptu fallen into a pool of wine. Or blood, it was hard to tell in the dark. “They looked expensive to risk damage.”
“Oh, there is no problem about it. Myron will re-write them if something is lost,” Hadrian commented, with a shrug.
At Mauvin’s puzzle shrugs, Royce took a casual book from a pile and asked, “page seventy, second paragraph of Vita Karoli.”
Myron recited it by memory immediately, without any faltering. Then Royce throw the book to Mauvin. “Can you read?” Mauvin nodded: Myron hadn’t missed a word of the book.
“Myron remembers every single book he has read,” Hadrian said. “Pretty cool, eh.”
“Oh, heh, it’s nothing. I just like reading.” Myron mused. “But I can’t move until I finish rewrite all the books lost in the fire… Ah, if I move away the Camina Burana I can find enough space…”
“The meal first, Myron,” Hadrian said gentle.
“Ah, sure, sure. Can I buy some ink too?”
“Why not?” Royce said. “They’re not my money. And until there’s enough for Montemorcey…”
Once Myron was out, Mauvin turned to Hadrian. “That’s it? These are the Musketeers? Living to the mercy of a nice monk, occupy less space than a pile of book, drinking all days and avoid fighting if you can?”
“It could be worse,” Royce commented.
“How so?”
“We could have no wine.”
Mauvin watched Hadrian with a plea. “But you are the Two Musketeers! You climbed the Crown Tower to steal under the Pope’s nose! You save the Duchess of Marseille from a mob by yourself! You discovered the conspiracy around the Bourgogne Fiend!”
“They paid us good at the time.”
“Is all a question of money for you?” Mauvin snapped.
Royce’s face shut down. “Everything is about money. Now maybe you believe in heroes, true love and loyalty but the world is filled only with selfishness and hunger of power, and that’s the results. The sooner you understand, the better will be for you.” He tilted his head towards Hadrian. “He was like that, once. Now is cured.”
Hadrian shrugged.
“But…” Mauvin started.
“I’m going to take a piss,” Royce announced, and trumped out of the room before Mauvin could formulate his objections.
“Listen,” Hadrian said, as he leaned forwards, “Royce may seem a cold-blooded bastard, but deep down-”
“I am a cold-blooded bastard,” Royce yelled from outside.
“Yes, and with an irritating advanced hearing.” Hadrian rolled his eyes. “What I mean is that you only know our victories. But defeats were a lot more, for us.”
Hadrian brushed the bottom of the glass with his index finger, then continued, “I was like you: I dreamt of being a hero, saving the world, getting the girl. But the only thing I was good at was fighting, so I joined the army. All I did for long was kill.” He sucked his finger. “When I was proposed for the musketeers, I thought it was my chance to be better. But defeat after defeat, you understand all you are is a murder, a thief and maybe a liar to yourself. And what remained is only a good drink.”
“And the king? That loyalty remained.”
“The king.” Hadrian sighed. “He lost everything when the queen die. Year after year, the Cardinal and the Lord Chancellor gained more power under his nose. That’s the reason he didn’t defend his own army anymore. So, yeah.”
Mauvin wondered what was going to tell his parents? They saved for years to give him the chance of making a name in Paris, but if there was nothing worth fighting for?
“Don’t be so sad. Maybe you’ll get better than us.”
“I don’t even want much. Just be proud, fight for the king’s name like my father did. Then gained a land, some savings maybe, and get a family.” Returning home, making his father proud.
“See?” Royce was still outside. “It’s all about money for you too.”
Hadrian snorted. “An advice: if you don’t want Royce to hear, just do not speak.”
“One last thing, Your Majesty.”
Amrath Essendon, the King of France, slammed his big hands on the golden wooden desk. “Oh, no, Percy. I haven’t stood up for three hours. If I remain sitting here for another second I’m going to explode.”
And he threw a very irritated look to his brother-in-law and Lord Chancellor. Percy Braga was the most efficient man he’d ever known, but it also meant he was a workaholic and picky. How he could also be an accomplished swordsman was a mystery, but no wonder he looked so old even if he was ten years younger than Amrath.
With sweet tone, Cardinal Saldur said, “This won’t take long, and it won’t even request the chair.”
At that, Amrath stood up and paced the room. Saldur was always able to get on his good side. Sometimes he felt Saldur was governing more than him. Sure, Amrath himself trusted him and Percy to do most of the common work for the kingdom.
“So, what is it?”
Saldur and Percy exchanged a look. “We were informed that a fight broke out between your musketeers and my personal guard.”
“Which one of my musketeers?” Amrath asked, well knowing the answer.
“Blackwater and Melborn.” Of course. It was always about them, his best and worse men. “And a young man who called himself Mauvin Pickering.”
“Pickering?” Amrath frowned, digging into his memory. “As Leo Pickering?”
“It may be his son,” Percy said.
Ah, old Leo. Amrath remembered a young, skilled swordsman that fight for France when Amrath was still a prince. It was a pity that he had to resign from his position after his marriage, but he couldn’t blame him. Lady Belinda was lovely. Sometimes, Amrath missed the idea of having a friend around instead of parasites he couldn’t trust.
“It would be nice, to meet his son,” he commented, self-conscious.
“Not sure, if he hangs out with such scoundrels,” Saldur said. “Your Majesty, the kingdom has enough problems. What will our people think if the different forces of our army fight with each other? What will our enemies? This is the time for a firm hand, no matter who will be affected.”
Amrath sighed. Saldur always appeared so reasonable and Hadrian and Royce were so independent most of the time.
“I took the liberty to summon the three of them,” Percy said. “So Your Majesty can punish them according.”
The summoning wasn’t unexpected, especially since the messenger talked about “Sir Melborn, Sir Blackwater and the new guy”. But still irritating. Recently, being at the king’s presence meant a scolding on the good days, an accusation on the bad ones. Even if Royce couldn’t deny that some of the accusations might be not far-fetched, at least the ones about the silvery disappearances from some noble houses.
In this case, he planned to blame everything on Mauvin. For once, it was the truth. If Amrath was on good mood and would avoid to be influenced by the Cardinal, they had a serious possibility to be let alone for the time being, or send somewhere to get rid of. A mission outside Paris meant they would have the possibility to request some funds.
“His Royal Majesty, King Amrath Essendon,” the chamber man announced.
As the door opened, Royce, Hadrian and Mauvin fell on their knees. While the other two kept their gaze low, Royce’s eyes wandered around. The king, with his crown and his long red fur mantle strolled in their direction. Predictably, his two guardian angels were there too, Saldur on the right and Braga on the left, one step behind him.
Amrath stopped in front of them, but didn’t ask them to stand, or at least lift their head. Not a good sign. Another bad sign was the following sigh: Amrath always did that when he had to order something he didn’t like and did nevertheless.
“I have the most respect of your skill and all the good things you did to my kingdom.” And yet it didn’t prevent you from discarding us over one mistake that damaged them more than France. “But those are difficult time, with the delicate relationship we have with England.” So difficult Ballentyne would be there in few weeks. “It is important to give around an impression of union, no matter if you’re part of the musketeers,” what musketeers? They basically didn’t exist anymore, “or the Cardinal’s guard.”
God, it was such a rigid discourse it was obvious someone put inside Amrath’s mouth by someone else. By the smile tugging the Cardinal’s mouth, it wasn’t hard to guess who he had been. It was Saldur’s doing, in the past, that cut most funds from the musketeers over Hadrian and Royce’s failed mission, basically destroying them.
“For that reason, it is my decision that you…”
Royce had tilted his head to the side, earing the sound of steps in the distance. Three people, one female, by the sound of the heels on the marble, barely muffled by the long gown that brushed on the floor.
Stepping on Amrath’s sentence, no one else than the Dauphine of France, princess Arista, made in entrance in the room. His brother, the heir to the kingdom, crown prince Alric was with her and behind them the ever-present bodyguard Hilfred, a man that belong not to the musketeers nor to the Cardinal’s guard. He answered to no one but her.
“Your Highness!” Saldur exclaimed, spotting her. “What a surprise.” His face betrayed his discomfort.
Arista reserved Saldur a saccarine smile. “Your Eminence. Uncle.” Raising her red gown with both hands, she greeted her father politely. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything. I just want to see with my two eyes the brave men that defeated the Cardinal’s guards.”
“Those men…” Saldur began, but was cut off.
“Alric was there and saw everything.” Arista nodded at her brother. “What it was, three against forty? Or was it four hundred?”
Hadrian turned his smirk in his usual charming smile and lifted his head to look at her. “Only forty, Your Highness. Slow day.”
Arista chuckled. “I hope you’re not punishing them too hard, father. Having the hands and hearts of such capable men is an advantage for France. Even if,” She tilted his head and looked specifically at Mauvin, whose face was drained of all blood since her arrival, “maybe someone will benefit from a little more of good sense.”
Amrath frowned. “Alric! How many times I have to tell you that you can’t go around Paris unattended?”
“I was armed.” Alric waved the scold away with a snort and a wave of his hand. “And, as you see, I was perfectly safe.”
“We’ll talk about this.” Amrath turned to Saldur. “Forty men?”
“Well, Your Majesty, the report wasn’t precise about the causality. But as we discussed about, it is fundamental-”
“You sent them looking for my son?” Amrath interrupted him.
Royce was enough of a liar to recognize the expression on Saldur’s face. No, they didn’t know the prince was there. He and Hadrian were the primary target, but now it was unclear with admission would be consider better from Amrath.
“I’m sure Sentinel Thranic was assuring the wellbeing of the Dolphin-”
“And surely sent an army on the street won’t create any problems!”
“Your Majesty…” Braga intervened. “Maybe the Cardinal’s guard only mistake was to be excessive in their protection of the prince, but we must focus on the main point which is the unity on the kingdom…”
“Uncle is right,” Arista said. “I’m pretty sure this is only a misunderstanding. Since Alric is fine I don’t think any other action are necessary.”
“I’m not sure.” Alric paced in front of Royce, Hadrian and Mauvin, a satisfied smile on his face. “They gave me a good show and they won the battle. I think they should be rewarded.” He stopped right in front of Mauvin, who couldn’t resist of meeting his gaze. “Some coins, maybe? It is outrageous that our musketeers go around dressed as street rats.”
“You knew!” Mauvin accused as they strolled outside the palace’s gate.
“Know what?” Hadrian replied, with an innocent expression.
“You also know what.”
“Oh, you mean the little fact of you flirting with the Dolphin of France? The crown prince? The heir of the Kingdom?” Hadrian punched his right palm. “Yeah, we know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me!”
“It was fun.” Royce shrugged. “You managed to do worse than Hadrian and he basically flirts with everything that breaths.”
“That’s not true. I never flirted with you.”
“That’s because you know I would have stabbed you.”
Mauvin released a groan of frustration and gestured his hands in the air, but in the end he didn’t bit back. Hopefully, no news of it would reach his father. Or worse, his sister. Lenare was merciless and would never let him live with the embarrassment.
“I can’t believe it…”
The worst thing was that Mauvin’s statement remained: the prince was cute. He was even more charming when he smiled so cocky and self-assured. Well, maybe not at him, but Mauvin kinda deserved it, didn’t he? Ah, his sister was right, saying that Mauvin had always too high expectations.
“I don’t know why are you complain,” Royce said. “You got the money you needed.”
“And I guess you’re a musketeer now,” Hadrian added. “So… congratulations?”
“Only because His Highness was mocking me,” Mauvin replied. “I didn’t expect to start my career with a knock-back. You know, if I have saved him, maybe…”
“Results are more important. Stop with this honorable bullshit. You’re worse than Hadrian at his age.”
“You didn’t meet me at his age, Royce,” Hadrian pointed out.
“Lucky for you. I think I would have killed you for sure.”
They kept bickering as they mounted back to their horses to return to Myron’s home. Mauvin followed them back in silent. Maybe not everything is lost. True, he was a musketeer now, apparently. He had some money, more than he started with. And he had been invited as official guards at the party for the England’s ambassador, so that was something.
And the prince and the princess had come to their aid. The prince had talked to his sister about him and not in so negative terms, otherwise they wouldn’t have defended their action against the Cardinal’s guard.
Mauvin remembered Alric’s cocky smirk and giggled inside.
The proof having the Dauphine on their side was that Royce had enough money to bought the last arrival of Montemorcey. The cons were that they also had to buy a new clothes and attend events at the Royal palace. It wouldn’t be so bad – free food! – if the next event schedule was the arrival of the England ambassador, who was no one other that Lord Archibald Ballentyne.
Saying that their relationship with Ballentyne was sticky was an understatement.
To avoid participation Royce tried, in the order, to be arrested, to be sick and to be dead, but then Hadrian said “don’t you think it’ll be plenty of ladies wearing jewelry?” and that convinced Royce that he could bear Ballentyne after all.
Sometimes Royce hated how much his partner know him.
So the two of them found themselves in the ranks of the few musketeers remained in the palace courtyard, waiting for the England embassy for the welcoming. With them there was Mauvin too, with his new green dress and his mantel and his typical musketeers hat with the feathers. For Royce dress code had always been a suggestion, so he wore black without a hat as usual. Hadrian was in the middle: blue elegant uniform but not hat.
“He’s coming or not?” Mauvin whispered. Royce understood his annoyance: his legs became stiff for the long time standing and he hated be there in the opening. Habit of a thief.
“He likes make people wait,” Hadrian explained. “He feels powerful.”
“Let me guess, he’s not married.”
Hadrian’s remark was cut off by a gush of wind so strong that the hats around flied away from those head not ready enough to grab them. Royce’s instinct took over and he crawled down, hiding behind a group of Cardinal’s guards. Rumors were too strong as people yelled around.
“What the fucking hell is that?” Mauvin asked.
When Royce lifted his eyes, he saw the keel of a ship over their head. It should be impossible, but the ship was flying in the sky, right over the courtyard. Then an anchor fell down, between the running soldiers, and the ship slowly landed in front of the palace entrance.
“The airship,” Hadrian said, to no one in particular. “So he managed to build it after all.”
“Thanks to our projects.” Royce regained his position at his partner’s side.
“Technically they were Da Vinci’s, we just stole them.”
A catwalk connected the ship to the ground and Ballentyne, with his usually frilly clothes and his smug made his entrance. King Amrath welcomed him, surely not pleased by the show-off; at his side, even Saldur and Braga were annoyed. For once, Royce shared their feelings.
Stiff and ordinary discourse were exchanged as Amrath and Ballentyne walked towards the entrance, the soldiers falling on their knee at their monarch’s passage. Royce hated the idea of being on the first row, too easily to spot, but hoped Ballentyne would be too busy to gloat over his airship to notice them.
“Look who is there too.”
Apparently it was Royce’s unlucky day.
“Fitting you’re on your knee, like the last time we saw each other.”
“Don’t kill him, Royce,” Hadrian whispered to him once Ballentyne went over.
“Not even a little stab? I know where to hit only to hurt.”
“Friend of yours?” Mauvin inquired, with a suspicious expression. Apparently he always found a new way to be disappointed by them.
“More of a foe, which, in Royce’s case, are the same,” Hadrian replied. “He kinda hates us.”
“Why?”
“I think it’s because we once stole the letters that ruined his marriage proposal,” Royce said.
“And because another time we put the severed head of his spy in his bed,” Hadrian added.
Mauvin chuckled, his eyebrows raised in surprise.
Hadrian shot a look at Royce, who nodded. None of them had any intention to talk about the last time we’d crossed path with Ballentyne, it was still too painful. With a look at the airship, where the crew was retreating the catwalk, Royce wondered if Merrick was there.
Mauvin was wandering in the garden with the hope of ‘casually’ meeting the prince after lunch when he heard someone calling his name. The king, flanked by a contingent of attendances, soldiers and chambermaids, was coming in his direction. At the sight, Mauvin bowed.
“Keep me company, will you?” the king said, gestured at him to stand.
“My pleasure, Your Majesty.” Then his mouth run. “Weren’t you with the ambassador?”
The king snorted. “Ballentyne was tired from the long journey, as if he walked from London. I doubt I’ll see him before dinner.”
He turned towards the garden path towards the lake. Mauvin flanked him, while the rest of the group followed them from behind. They sauntered surrounded by the perfect brushes that lined up the path of the courtyard, smell of cutting grass and flowers filled the air.
“So, how are you faring here in Paris? Are you settling?”
“Fine, and yes. Hadrian and Royce are showing me the business. They’re very… welcoming.”
The king laughed. “This is a lie. But I’m glad to hear it.” Then his gaze lost in his thought. “You’re really Leopold Pickering’s son?”
Mauvin nodded. “My father always talks about his time as a musketeer. He says he met you.”
“I was a lot younger then, and the dolphin. Ah, old Leo!” A soft smile enlightened his features, most of the time darker of worries. “We were close, at the time. I joined the army, wanted to have some experience of real life.” A chuckle. “Most of the things we did back then would be illegal today.”
“By my father’s tales, they were illegal back then too.”
“That is true!” The king laughed and Mauvin found out he liked him. “I was sad when he decided to leave. We dreamt of the time I would be king and he would be one of my musketeers, maybe one of my nobles. But the idea of him marrying an Englishwoman clashed with the loyalty requested and I wasn’t strong enough to convince my father of Leo’s good intention.”
Mauvin threw a look over his shoulders, wondering if the group was listened. “But you gifted them to the Galilin land in Gascony. We are very grateful.”
“That’s the least I can do for him.” Amrath smiled. “And I didn’t resent him. If I have a woman like Belinda, maybe I would have given up my kingdom to.” Then, realizing he was speaking about Mauvin’s mother, he added, “they’re fine, right?”
Mauvin wondered if it was the moment to talk about the problem his family had faced in the past. But if his father hadn’t want to ask for any help from the king, he wouldn’t be the one to disrespect his decision.
“They’re good. They’re very happy together.”
“And you’re the only son?”
“No, I...” Mauvin stumbled a little over Fanen’s name in his mind. “I have a little brother and a sister.”
“They will be welcomed here at the court, of course.”
A smile tug Mauvin’s lips at the thought of his family. “Weell, Denek would like to, of course, but he’s still too young. And Lenare… I don’t want to have to challenge to a duel his wannabe suitors. They’ll be to many and give me a bad rep.”
“If she’s beautiful even half of his mother, that’ll be pretty likely.” Amrath laughed.
His steps slowed down and his gaze wandered in the far until he spotted another group on the opposite side of the garden, heading towards the porch right in the middle of the clear water. It was the Dolphin with his entourage, which was composed mostly by young ladies dressed with elegant color. It appeared like a peacock with his opened tail.
“My children lost their mother early. I fear my grief prevented me to be the father and the king they deserved,” Amrath said. “And I’m sorry I didn’t do more for your father, but I hope…” He reserved Mauvin a warm smile. “Maybe you can be for my son what your father could have been for me.”
“I will my pleasure, Your Majesty.”
“It’s time to put an end on this,” Saldur said, once he and Merrick were safe on his private office, a room big with tall marble walls and a map of Europe on the floor. “I have been able to control the king until now, but his children are growing up. The princess is becoming especially irritating in her attempt to influence her father.”
Saldur sat on his lavish armchair, settling better his red gowns and intertwined his hands. Merrick joined him, but his attention was caught by the chess board at a corner of the desk, which a game was on stalemate. He watched it on his head slowly tilted.
It would be easy to just kill the entire royal family and get over with it. Unfortunately, the last attempt failed, killing only the queen, and had presented Saldur with a big problem: not every noble would accept Braga as heir, since he was the king’s relative only by marriage.
Exeter, the king’s cousin, had support in South France, where his lands were, and he was enough arrogant to make clear he would fight for the throne. A civil war wasn’t something beneficial to Saldur. And killing both the Essendons and the Exeters would be a little bit suspicious for a swift inheritance for Braga.
“So, you have a plan for me?” Saldur called for his attention.
Merrick took off some of the pieces from the board then moved a pawn: it was a checkmate. Only then, he sat down and said, “Yes.”
“Don’t lose time, then. Tell me!”
“You are fortunate, because my plan involved the Dauphine.” Merrick began rearranging the piece on the board to prepare a new match. “Have you heard of Degan Gaunt?”
“Isn’t he that Scottish Nationalist that tried to blow up the Royal Palace last year?” Saldur frowned. “King Ethereld hasn’t caught him yet?”
“No, because Professor Esrahaddon is protecting him.” Merrick placed the black tower down. “Not that I told him that, of course.”
“So Esrahaddon is a traitor and you’re a spy. What does it have to do with me?”
Merrick rolled the white queen in his fingers. “The Dauphine has had secrecy correspondence with Esrahaddon for years.”
“For real?” Saldur had never knew about it: Arisa was resourceful to escape his surveillance.
“Their conversations are pure intellectual and philosophical.” Merrick’s tone was of mildly annoyance. “It’ll be nice spicing things up, perhaps with forged letters where they talk about Gaunt and about the little trivia that she, by blood, has some rights over the England’s throne.”
Saldur smirked. “A foreign princess talking treason with a traitor. Doesn’t look good.”
“It’ll look even worse after the king was killed.” Merrick hit the white king with the white queen. “With the letters as proof, you can trail the Dauphine for her father’s murder and have her executed. Both you and Braga will be clear from any suspicious.”
The two white bishops were now in the center of the board. Saldur looked at them. “Will the nobles being convinced by your forgery? I’m not doubting your talent, of course, but they have fickle personality. Even if Arista is unpleasant, they may be persuaded to stand by her.”
“They won’t if you can prove the letters are real.” For the first time, Merrick looked at him. “The Dauphine possesses a very expensive and dedicated object everyone knows about, right? Her golden brush.”
Saldur nodded. The brush was a work of art, entirely in pure gold and decorated with pearls and diamonds on the back. The king had gifted his daughter for her eighteen birthday and she kept it safe in a safe in her room.
“I wonder how it will look if the Dauphine says, in one letter, that she’s sending the brush as money for Esrahaddon and that said brush isn’t any more in her room?” Merrick had again the white queen his hand, rolling it in his fingers.
“And the prince?” Saldur asked, placing the white king upside again on the board. “He’ll be the heir.”
“This entire fake conspirator will disrupt any relationship between France and England.” With the back of his hand, Merrick hit the white pawns. They rolled out of the board. “I heard the Dolphin is spoiled and prone to anger. I’m sure he’ll be persuaded Ethereld is protecting other responsible of his father’s murder. He can be persuaded it was all a ruse from England to weak his kingdom.”
Saldur reflected. “I admit Alric hasn’t show any talent for ruling. The sudden death of his father will leave him vulnerable.”
“And in war, who knows what can happen to a young, grieving monarch.” Merrick stole the white king from Saldur’s hand and turned it upside down. “I consider I already gave you the means to win a war against England?”
“You did.”
“Good.” Merrick smiled satisfied and relaxed for the first time, crossing his legs. “Once the Dolphin dies too and Braga wins the war in his stead, his lineage won’t be questioned anymore.”
Saldur watched the disrupted board with a frown. “Won’t Ethereld try to avoid conflict? Esrahaddon and Gaunt are his opponent after all.”
“I have the means to convince him that it was mostly the Dauphine’s doing to steal his throne.” Merrick put a black pawn and a white one near each other. Then threw the black tower over the board. “But I’ll have to sacrifice Ballentyne, if problems arise.”
“Ballentyne has been useful for now.” Saldur collected a bottle of wine from a cabinet. “But every good chess player knows that someone sacrificing your best pieces is fundamental to winning the war.”
“Correct.”
Saldur poured two glasses. “To our collaboration?”
“I’ll need guarantee before starting,” Merrick stated. “A signed paper will do.”
“I’m sure Braga won’t have any problem to do it. He’s the one becoming king.”
Merrick smiled. “Long life to His Majesty, then.”
And they tilted their glasses together.
Since the king had given his approval, or so Mauvin had taken it, he felt enough daring to walk towards the patio.
It was a big wooden structure place right in the middle of the lake, at the end of the palace garden. It was covered by light tent that protect from insect but not dark enough to hit whoever was inside. The floor was covered with carpets and cushions, where people sat comfortably. Short, round and small table were arranged with sweet, fruit and wine glass.
The Dauphin of France sat right in the middle, a filled glass languidly in his right hand, while he left a maid used her fan to cool the air around him. As he tilted his head on the side, he spotted Mauvin on the bridge that connected the patio with the gardens.
“Your Highness!”
Alric put the glass down and whispered something to the lady at his left. She giggled. Then he stood up, moved aside the tent and went to face Mauvin in the middle of the bridge. Mauvin took off his hat and made a low bow.
“You got a decent dress today.” Alric stopped a meter from him and observed him from head to toe.
“Thanks to you, Your Highness.”
“But green was in fashion last year. You should have chosen blue.” Alric, of course, wore an elegant blue silk dress with silver embroidery, now that he wasn’t hiding his identity anymore. He smiled at little, daring, waiting for Mauvin’s move.
Mauvin put back his feather hat. He liked it, as a symbol of his role. “I’d like to apologize for my behavior when we-”
“Ah. I see it’s not Thursday today.”
Alric smiled satisfied. Somehow the fact that he remembered Mauvin’s joke made him more attractive. Mauvin can’t help but grin.
“Don’t worry, my dear musketeer.” Alric stepped forwards, nullifying the distance between them. His fingers brushed over Mauvin’s chest, the fingertips pressed lightly over the fabric, his tone low and his face near. “I’ll bear no grudge against people unable to impress me.”
And with that he left, returning to his patio and his laughing friends, which with no doubts would be talking about Mauvin. He remained still, wondering if Alric would ask him to join him, but when it didn’t happen, Mauvin turned to his heels and went to look for Hadrian and Royce.
***
Arista found the forged letters before their time. But still too late: the golden brush, that she held dearly as his father’s gift and kept safe in his room had disappeared. The impromptu use of that cherish object offended her more than the attempt to frame her.
Words aren’t enough to show our gratitude for your wonderful gift. We know it wasn’t easy for you to separate from such a wonderful gift, which testify the importance you held our mission. A single diamond of your golden brush will fund Degan’s army for months. I promise I make sure it would be used well to honor you.
The imitation of Esrahaddon’s style was so sloppy that it was hilarious. She snorted amused, though the situation was serious. Her mind reflected on the implication that letters brought.
“We should burn them, Your Highness,” Hilfred proposed. He and her lady-in-waiting Melissa where the only she shared the story with. “Before someone else finds them.”
“It would be useless.” Arista tossed the letters on the desk and stood up, dusting her red gown. “My brush is gone and that is their proof. They will find a way to point it out.”
“We may recover it.”
“Yes. That is ideal.” She walked to the window and placed a hand on the glass. “But it’s probably on his way to London right now.”
In her mind, there is no doubt Ballentyne’s presence was involved. And they would try to make her treachery as realistic as possible, giving the brush to Esrahaddon when the occasion arose. The clock was ticking fast, faster than she expected.
“We know of someone familiar with the London Tower,” Hilfred said.
“Yes.” Arista arrived at the same conclusion. “Let’s go.”
Unlike his brother she hadn’t the habit of sneaking out of the palace; when she put over her black cloak with her black hood she felt even more the conspirator they wanted her to be. For once Hilfred anticipated her path, as he knew the guards’ shift.
They walked in the dark and long hallway of the palace, the moonlight casting strange shadows on the mirrors when they passed, their steps soft, no lamp or torch in their hands. Their destination was her father’s wing, where a passage for attendants brought them directly to the kitchen.
The moment she opened the door, a light blinded her.
“Arista!”
“Uncle.”
He stood in the middle of the room, in his nightshirt, parchments under his left armpit and the lamp on his right hand. He observed her with a frown.
“It’s very late. What are you up to at his hour?”
“I can say the same,” she replied, offended by the accusing tone in his voice.
But it wasn’t hard to understand his presence: he always worked late and he had a habit of remembering work to do in the middle of the night, much to his father’s displeasure.
“I forgot I need those documents ready for tomorrow.”
“I can’t sleep, so I thought to go for a walk, maybe grab a book from the library.”
The tension was palpable, the excuse weak. His uncle raised an eyebrow at her attire, which she hadn’t changed since dinner, too focused on her letters, and the black cloak. The truth wasn’t dangerous per se: leaving the palace might be unwise and conspicuous, dangerous even despite Hilfred’s presence, but not treacherous. Alric did it all the time.
However, her situation was different. Everything would be used against her.
But his uncle decided not to inquire more. “You should ask for a brew and then lay down. I can-”
A female scream tore the air around them. Hilfred drew his sword and advanced at her side, but the sound came far inside his father’s wing. The scream tuned down, turning into the continued whining of someone who had difficulty breathing. Arista remembered a similar sound, the one her father had emitted after her mother’s death.
She eyed her uncle, whose expression darkened in worry. He was an accomplished swordsman, but he hadn’t his weapons with him.
“The guards should be there soon.”
But Arista didn’t want to wait. She pivoted on her heels, the black cloak wavering behind her as she rushed towards the wailing sound. Hilfred and his uncle followed suit, so her steps were lightened by the lamp still in his uncle’s hand. But there was no need since she remembered the path. It wasn’t a surprise when she found herself at the entrance of the royal chapel.
One of his father’s chambermaids was there, on her knee, her face twisted in horror and her mouth still emitting these tearing sounds. A tray with a cup and a teapot had fallen from her hands and now lay disrupted around her. The same with the lamp: the oil slick on the pavement was still inflamed. Hilfred took off his cloak and used it to extinguish the fire before it expanded.
Arista got around the chambermaid and stepped inside the royal chapel. Her fists tightened and her eyes widened in shock when she saw her father on the floor in front of the altar, lying in a pool of blood, a knife sticking out his back.
The shock of Amrath’s death was enough to startle Mauvin completely awake despite the sudden wake in the middle of the night. He eyed Royce and Hadrian, whose expressions darkened but they still looked unruly, even if they sleept in their clothes. Only Myron, that used to write at night, appeared vigilant but confused by the entire ordeal.
“Let me get this straight,” Mauvin said, once Hilfred finished recollecting the latest events. “The princess wants us to run to London, find where Ballentyne held her brush, steal it and then rush back here so she won’t be accused of her father’s murder?”
Hilfred remained serious. “And in less than a week. She doubts she can hold her trial for more.”
Mauvin lifted his eyebrow, unsure if being incredulous or happy for such trust in his skill. Then, with a shake of his head, he remembered who his comrades were. It had been said they had already penetrated inside the impenetrable London Tower.
“Why should we?” Royce asked.
“Well, you’ll be paid.” Hilfred’s answer revealed his perplexity. Of course, for him was all a question of loyalty. Mauvin agreed with him: that was why he wanted to be a musketeer in the first place.
“That’s the bare minimum,” Royce replied. “But I don’t work with such a deadline. And we’re already on probation, it is too risky for us.”
“But we have to do it!” Mauvin protested. “The musketeers’ role is to aid the royal family.”
“And she saved us recently,” Hadrian added.
Royce scolded. “We wouldn’t have been in trouble in the first place if it wasn’t for you two.”
Hilfred’s face remained on stone. “She said you may not be too inclined to accept her request.”
The three of them looked at him, expectantly. There was a ‘but’ in that sentence, and it came directly from the Dauphine.
“She said to tell you to consider this,” Hilfred continued. “If she is condemned and executed, only Alric will remain between you and the Cardinal. And she doesn’t consider far-fetched that Alric too may incur sooner an ill fate too. What will happen to the musketeers then?”
“Ah.” Royce settled better in his chair. “So it’s either we help her enraging the Cardinal or we do nothing with the risk of still having the Cardinal on our tail.”
“She’s not wrong.” Hadrian hummed. “Saldur already hates us and I’ll take any chance to destroy us completely.”
“We need to do this,” Mauvin added. “The Dolphin will need his musketeers when he’ll become king.” He wondered how Alric had taken his father’s death and wished to have insisted more on becoming his friend so that he could have been with him.
Royce muttered something under his breath that sounded like swearing that made Myron cross himself, and then added someone about regretting the time he was convinced to join that ill-organization the musketeers were. But there was a smirk on his face that told Mauvin he was already calculating their odds and the possibility to fuck over Ballentyne again.
“Good! So after me… One for all…” Mauvin lifted the closed punch, but Royce and Hadrian just looked at him, impassible. “Never mind.”
“It’s better you come with you too,” Hadrian said to Myron, as they collected back their weapons and other goodies that might aid them during their mission. Royce had an unsurprising collection of picklocks.
“Me? To London? Oh, no.” Myron shook his head. “I’ve never been outside Paris.”
“You can’t stay here. The Cardinal’s Guards know we live here and they won’t be kind to anyone helping us.”
“But-”
“And they won’t probably mind burning down this place to rat us out,” Royce added. He gained a scold from Hadrian, as Myron started trembling a little, and even Royce seemed regretful. “Well, it’s the truth.”
Hadrian placed a hand on Myron’s shoulder. “Your sovereigns need you. And with enough reward, you may even be able to build back the abbey or at least a better place to store your books.”
That seemed to convince Myron, even if he still kept his head lower and his hand tightened in his robe. Royce stopped him by putting some scrolls inside his bags.
“Not even the Bible?”
“No.”
“Let me take at least this Saint Agustine's letter. No, better the Rubruk's travel journal. Wait, can be useful…?”
Hadrian grabbed Myron by the collar and gently dragged him outside, while he was still trying to stuff scrolls inside his small backpack.
“Ah, one last thing,” Hilfred said, as they moved outside to collect their horses. “Her Highness also want you to kidnap her brother and bring him to London with you.”
They blinked at him. “Wait wait… she wants us to kidnap the Dauphin of France?”
“The king of France, now, I guess,” Royce said. He was done with everything.
“Right.” Hadrian glared at him, then turned his attention to Hilfred.
“Why?” Mauvin asked. He’d already started on the wrong foot with Alric, he doubted a kidnapping would gain him any points.
“Her Highness is afraid a murder attempt may be done against the Dauphin, taking advantage of the confusion around her trial,” Hilfred explained. “He’ll be safer with you. Besides, he’ll be easier convinced of her innocence if he collects the brush from Ballentyne by himself. Otherwise, the Cardinal may influence him the wrong way.”
“And if the Dolphin is nowhere to be found, it may delay her trial and give us more time,” Royce guessed.
“Exactly,” Hilfred confirmed.
“But the Dolphin will be the most surveilled man in the kingdom right now, given what happened to the king.” Hadrian rubbed his unkempt beard, then he understood and his expression fell. “He isn’t in the palace right now, isn’t he?”
Hilfred shook his head. “Her Highness knows where to find him. Come with me, I’ll show you.” He mounted his horse. “His absence might have saved his life.”
Hadrian grinned at Royce. “And you complained about my female friendships.”
Mauvin didn’t listen to his growled answer. He was too focused on the thought of Alric, alone and in danger in the middle of Paris, and spurred his horse immediately after Hilfred’s.
In his life as a musketeer, especially as Royce’s partner, Hadrian had faced the most diverse bizarre and embarrassing situation. But he had to admit, storming into a room where the Dauphin of France was peacefully sleeping with his lover with the intention of kidnapping him was one of the strangest.
Their attempt to be inconspicuous was ruined by Myron first, that by mistake made Mauvin trip against a piece of furniture. The confusion made Alric stir and, noticing where he was, grabbed in the dark for his nightshirt, still unaware of their presence.
The movement woke up his girl too, and she definitely saw them. Her scream pierced the silence suddenly, startling them and Alric, who froze, his hand still clasping the nightshirt, his naked body barely covered by the sheet, while she hid behind him.
With a snort, Royce lightened a candle: the dim light was enough for everyone to recognize the others’ features. Alric’s eyes narrowed in recognition.
“You.” His gaze was fixed on Mauvin, who fidgeted under the stare.
Mauvin took off the hat and bent his knee. “You Highness. You had to come with us, for your own safety.”
“My father sent you?”
Mauvin darted his gaze on Hadrian, as a silent request to help dispatch the tragic news. “Your sister,” he answered instead. It was the truth after all, and a quieter one for now.
“I don’t take orders from my sister.” Slowly, Alric put the nightshirt on and stood up, ignoring the girl behind him. “Normally I won’t mind, because I don’t like spending the night here. But now I think I’ll do it. Leave.”
“Your father is dead,” Royce said flatly.
That made Alric pause. “My… father?”
“He was murdered,” Royce continued, while the girl gasped in horror. “Someone stabbed him in the royal chapel.”
Alric blinked again, as the words didn’t make sense. “I don’t understand.”
Mauvin had put back his hat and his hand flinched as he wanted to reach for Alric, comfort him, help him to understand. Alric’s face was on Royce, as he expected a sudden revelation.
“Blackwater! Melborn! Pickering!” It was Luis Guy’s voice, coming from outside. “Deliver your weapons and surrender. We guarantee your safety.”
Mauvin jumped away from Alric. “How did he find us?”
“Probably they knew where the prince was and they took a lucky guess at where we are.” Royce moved, back on the wall, and slid as near as possible to the closed window, so he could peer from the side and not put his head on the open. “Or they intercepted Hilfred on his way back to the palace.”
“Can we fight them?” Hadrian asked, but inside he knew the answer. Even from afar, he could see the street was now enlightened by numerous torches.
Royce shook his head. “Horsemen, at least thirty. Both Luis Guy and Thranic are here. They’re taking precautions.”
“I’ll count until ten,” Luis Guy said again. “Do not make me charge or we can’t guarantee the safety of everyone inside.”
“Yeah, sure.” Royce snorted. “They’re whispering about killing us the second we step outside. They have archers too.”
Hadrian did no doubt Royce’s words, his partner had the ability to hear from a long distance. If Luis Guy was giving a different order to his men, Royce could hear it even behind the glasses.
“Oh, this is absurd.” Alric strolled to the window and opened it. “I’m prince Alric and this is-” His face peered for a second before Royce grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the floor. A second later, an arrow flew into the air, crossing the space where Alric’s head had been and got stuck on the opposite wall. The girl screamed.
“They won’t hesitate to kill you and call it an accident,” Royce stated.
Alric’s eyes stuck on the arrow. “B-but I’m the pr…” His voice stumbled on the word as his mind tried to process the information he was receiving. Outside, Luis Guy counted.
“We need to leave, now,” Hadrian stated, looking at Royce, who nodded in agreement.
Mauvin kneeled down again near Alric, but he scrambled away, his face was pale but his eyes darting with closed range. He stumbled to regain his balance, stepping backwards. Hadrian drew his short sword and hit him in the head with the pommel. Mauvin was fast enough to grab the unconscious body before it fell on the floor.
“Why?”
Hadrian shrugged at Mauvin’s incredulous stare.
“We don’t have time for this.” Royce threw a last glare outside. “Mauvin, take the Dauphin. Hadrian, the sword. Myron, the clothes.”
Still unsure but a little bit relaxed now that he was tasked with Alric’s safety, Mauvin moved to put Alric on his shoulders. Myron recollected the spreader clothes while Royce tossed Hadrian the royal sword. Hadrian’s gaze fell on the girl, still on the bed with a sheet around her body.
“What’s your name?” he asked, with a reassuring smile.
Her eyes shifted from Mauvin, to Royce, to Hadrian. “Tilly.”
“Tilly. I’m Hadrian and I’m a musketeer. These ones too. We need your help to save the Dauphin’s life from the men outside.”
“Are you sure?” Royce asked. He wasn’t prone to ask for external help.
“If we just left, they may kill her too,” Hadrian pointed out. There was a time when Royce wouldn’t have care, but now it was a habit to indulge his partner’s generosity, so he nodded.
Tilly’s expression was still of disbelief, but she had probably recognized them and between the arrow and the gentle way Mauvin was taking care of Alric, she made up her mind. With the sheet wrapped around her body as a nightshirt, she stood up with her bare feet.
“What shall I do?”
Royce explained to her.
When Luis Guy ended his count and was about to order his men to launch fire arrows, from the window at the first floor Tilly threw him down the content of her pit. Her aim wasn’t as good as Royce would have preferred, but it was enough to scare Luis Guy’s horse and unbalanced him.
Then they busted out of the stable, horses launched in unstoppable gallops. The archers, arrows ready, couldn’t react to such a sudden arrival and the horsemen hadn’t their swords ready yet. The musketeers disappeared in the dark street of Paris, running away.
They ran all night, heading to Normandy. Royce had left them with the intention of confounding their pursuers, while Hadrian and Mauvin kept their direction straight. Despite the rash, they weren’t as fast as they could because both of them had passengers: Myron shared the horse with Hadrian while the Dauphin’s still unconscious body was tied against Mauvin’s back.
Mauvin could feel the warmth spread through his cloak’s fabric and the way Alric’s face tumbled against his shoulder as the horse jumped an obstacle. The position was uncomfortable and Mauvin dreaded the moment his precious cargo would wake up and realized his situation.
Their relationship hadn’t improved since their first, embarrassing meeting, but before the king’s death, Mauvin had hoped the sideswipes were a form of sympathy or flirtation. Now he had no idea how Alric might react to the musketeers’ decision to side with his sister and agree to kidnap him, even if it was for his own safety.
But he would protect the Dolphin, with his life if necessary.
The first dim of the dawn illuminated the horizon when Alric stirred, a strangled sound emitted from his throat. Mauvin halted the horse immediately, but Alric was already wriggled in panic against the ropes, his legs kicking the horse with the risk of startling it. From that position, he couldn’t see who was tied up to.
“Your Highness!” Mauvin called.
“I’ll have you flogged to death! Release me this instant!”
Hadrian was on his side, a knife in his hand and cut the restrain in a swift and expert movement. Alric retracted and dismounted in a not gracious movement, falling backwards in the grass. He squinted his eyes to adapt them to the dim light as he assessed his situation and the fact that he was in the middle of a forest, unarmed and with only his nightshirt and a cloak to cover him.
“I have your clothes, Your Highness,” Myron supplied. His tone was kind, shy, but it only created a surge of rage in Alric.
“You had sentence yourself to death.” He stood up with all the dignity he could gather, his naked feet in the dirty soil. “Bring me back now.”
Mauvin dismounted and, as he approached him, he was the victim of a very angry glare. “We can’t,” Mauvin said. “Just… listen to us. It is important. Please trust me on this.” It was almost a plea.
“And why should I?” Alric replied, taking a step backwards, ready to escape. “Since the first time, you haven’t done anything but disrespect me. And now you…” His hand went to his head where Hadrian had hit him.
“Just-” Mauvin gripped Alric’s shoulders, kept it near. “Please.” He just needed Alric to calm down, to listen, to see that Mauvin was only trying to help.
Then, all fight in Alric’s disappeared. Mauvin could feel the moment his body shut down. Alric looked at Mauvin and for the first time he wasn’t a cocky expression or an outraged one. Alric looked lost, younger than ever was, his green eyes searching for reassurance.
Mauvin wanted to hug him, to console him, but he couldn’t. He was his musketeer.
“My father… is dead?”
Royce joined back the group later on. Alric heard the sound of hoofs and then the hushed voices of the others as they recollected the situation. Alric didn’t move from his reserved position at the edge of the camp. He sat down on a rock and looked at the slow flood of the stream.
He had no idea how to act in such a situation. He’d been so sure, in all his life, that his father would have died at old age, giving Alric plenty of time to grow up, enjoy his life and very late learn how to be king. And now people expected him to deal with his father’s murder, the destiny of France and a possible conspiracy and war against England.
Arista’s plan was another complicacy. Alric couldn’t say he and his sister were close and, sure, she was ambitious and on some occasions might have enjoyed putting Alric in difficult positions, showing off that she considered herself a better candidate for the throne. But he never considered her so cold and cruel to kill their father and fuel a war.
A part of him wanted to order the musketeers to return him to Paris and once. But another part of him wanted just to disappear not to face the consequence of all that mess. That, together with Luis Guy’s arrow, tipped the scale on Arista’s suggestion.
“We need to move,” Alric heard Royce say. It was loud enough that Alric was sure Royce was talking to his benefit too. “I may have lost them, but they won’t stop. And they may know where we’re heading to. Go call him.”
The sound of flattened grass. When Alric lifted his head, Mauvin was there, cautiously a meter from him, with a serious expression. Of course they send Mauvin, as if Alric was easily swayed by a pretty face.
Not that he considered Mauvin pretty. Not with his messy dark hair, that pierce black eyes and the self-assured smile.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Your Highness.”
It was unexpected. They didn’t have time to indulge in sorrow.
“Have you ever lost someone?” Alric asked.
Mauvin’s eyes widened and Alric could see his expression shifting from surprise to pain to decision.
“My brother Fanen.” Clearly, the name still pained him. “Luis Guy killed him.”
“How? Why?”
“My family… We aren’t rich, but we manage. Until we have a few years of bad farming. We asked for a delay of taxes.” Mauvin’s eyes shifted to the right, searching his memory. “They didn’t concede it. That’s when Luis Guy arrived with his men to steal the little it remained. We tried to fight them, only the two of us. Before my father intervene, Fanen was dead and I was wounded.”
Unaware, Alric had stood up and reached for him. A lot of questions were on the tip of his tongue, wondering why Mauvin’s father hadn’t called for the king, for his mercy. Or maybe he had and Alric’s father had ignored it because he couldn’t interrupt the church’s decision. Given how Mauvin fight, Alric wondered how many of Luis Guy’s men died before they managed to hit him.
“I’m sorry.”
Mauvin’s hands were on Alric’s back, dragging him forwards. It took a second for Alric to realize that, ignoring all etiquette of not touching a member of the royal family, on pain of death, Mauvin was hugging him. A comforting gesture that Alric needed, as his body relaxed and his head sank into Mauvin’s chest.
Alric couldn’t cry, as much as he wanted to. He is the king now, he had to be strong, reliable.
But he wondered if, despite being the king, could indulge in the idea of having a friend.
When he separated from Mauvin, too soon and too late, his eyes were completely dry.
“If I need to come to London with you, I want my own horse.”
Their journey to Calain proceeded with no trouble. Royce provided in a not very legal manner a horse to Alric so the Dauphin soon-to-be king proceeded fast together with the musketeers. They didn’t have many chance to chitty-chat, but when Alric’s gaze fell on Mauvin there was some sense of safety there which melt Mauvin’s heart.
The decision to hug him had been a sudden impulse, so Mauvin was happy to see it accounted for a new trust between the two of them.
But when they reached Calain, they found it crowded with Cardinal’s guards. The serious figure of Thranic with his black and red uniform was clearly visible in front of the docks.
“How did they find us?” Alric asked, in a way that suggested he was blaming Royce for it.
“They clearly know about our intention to recover the brush,” Hadrian said. “This is the port we had to use if we hope to arrive in London in time.”
Hadrian was right: there were too many soldiers for a mere coincidence, or a lucky guess at finding the men who kidnapped the Dauphin. Mauvin scrutinized the surrounding: not a good place for a battle outnumbered.
“I’ll distract them,” Hadrian offered. “I’m the only one that can hold them off long enough for you to escape.”
“That’s ridiculous and it will only get you killed,” Royce replied. “I’ll be the one creating a diversion, one that will allow me to run away before they catch me while you fly away.”
“Both of you are indispensable for the success of this mission.” Mauvin shook his head. “We need the Two Musketeers. I’ll let them chase me.”
Since everyone was offering, Myron murmured, “But what if I-” but he was promptly cut off by three loud ‘no!’. Myron’s safety was not in discussion.
“You’re all wrong,” Alric said, once assessing the situation. “I’ll be the bait.” He frowned at the word, but nodded. “That’s the only way.”
“Absolutely no,” Mauvin stated.
Alric glared, but Royce added, “We already witnessed that they’re not above killing you.”
“Sure, but they want to use you as a scapegoat.” Mauvin just admired how suddenly calm and self-assured Alric seemed after that moment of weakness. “They want to kill you first and foremost, so if any of you get caught it’s over. However, I am the king: they’ll be more careful.” He crossed his arms. “My sister may be smart, but bringing me along without authorization in a rival country isn’t the best solution for avoiding conflict, so maybe it is best if I remain here.”
While Hadrian and Royce shared a look, Mauvin understood they agreed with Alric’s suggestion as the best idea. He’d become pretty good at reading their silent conversation, but he didn’t like the answer.
“We’re supposed to protect you,” he said to Alric. “If anything happens to you and I’m not there…”
“Have a little faith in me, will you?” A confident smile tugged Alric’s lips, and Mauvin was defenseless against it. “Right now, stopping Ballentyne and recovering the brush is of the most importance. We need to stop any attempt at creating a war between France and England. I have to protect my people. If something happens to me, you can still manage to complete the mission.”
“If something happens to you, there is no France,” Mauvin pointed out, a desperate attempt to keep him close.
“Of course there is. The people will still be there, and they won’t be forced to fight and die for a war no one wants.” Alric’s expression was sweet but decisive. “I’ll have you protect my sister and my kingdom by revealing this conspiracy.”
They were all witnessing the king Alric was about to become, something Mauvin admired and couldn’t stop, nor he wanted to, no matter the risk.
“Besides.” Alric took off Mauvin’s feather hat with an amused smile. “This looks better on me.”
It was true.
Mounting a horse, with the cloak covering his body and the feather hat, Alric could easily being mistaken for Mauvin, even if he was shorter and less broad in the shoulders. For good measurement, Royce climbed on a balcony and, hiding his voice, yelled, “Look! Pickering!” which lured away the church’s soldier. Thranic was the first one to move, ordering his men to follow the musketeer.
And Mauvin could only watch as the horseman with his hat flew in the distance followed by black and red men.
Sometimes Hadrian felt like a babysitter, no matter how big they were supposed to be the others. But looking at Mauvin (twenty-one) who was for the first time on a ship and jumped around with the sailors to observe the horizon, or a Myron (thirty-five) who was listened to the most made-up stories the sailors were ready to tell him laughing of his reactions, well, it was impossible to not feel like that.
And then, of course, there was the worse baby: Royce (thirty-eight) who, after vomiting his gut and his soul, was now there, wrapped in his black cloak which did nothing to hid him on a ship. He was pale than usual and his bad humor was hidden by his usual scold.
Hadrian decided to risk his life.
“Are we going to speak about the elephant in the room sooner or later?”
Royce glared.
“Do I need to spell it out loud?” Hadrian ignored him. “We know our real opponent isn’t Ballentyne. He’s just the distraction. If-”
“Do not say that name.”
“Which name?” Hadrian feign ignorance.
“Who?” Mauvin trotted near them, sweat on his forehead and hands red for using too much ropes.
Royce passed the gaze between the two of them, but his attempt to look menacing was completely destroyed by a new surge of nausea, and the slipped away to not throw up in front of everyone. Hadrian would jest with him if it would have been a normal journey.
But it wasn’t. Hadrian himself wasn’t above the urge of transforming the mission in something more personal like revenge and the only reason he didn’t do that was out of respect for Royce’s feeling.
Mauvin looked at him. “Not to pry, but what is it about Ballentyne?”
Hadrian wondered if he should speak. It was still an open wound for them, but it was true it would be very hard to keep that story out of that new mission.
“Three years ago, we were in Venice for an assignment.” Hadrian took a barrel and used it as a makeshift seat. “We had a tip that Ballentyne wanted to steal some Leonardo Da Vinci’s projects to create a powerful weapon which would put England in advantage in a possible war and we were assigned to anticipate him.”
“Was it the airship?”
“Yes.”
Mauvin’s expression lightened in understanding. “It was the mission you failed that let the Cardinal downgrade you?”
“It was a good tip.” Hadrian nodded. “But in the end, it was a trap.”
Mauvin sat down next to him, closer. “What happened?”
“The projects were held in a surveilled locked building full of traps created by Da Vinci himself.” Hadrian watched the horizon. “We intercept a letter about it that told Ballentyne had found a way to flood the main room. In that way, the administrator would have been forced to intervene and clear the area, leaving the path free for smugglers.”
“The letter was fake?”
“More or less.” Hadrian gritted his teeth. “They wanted the room flooded, but they weren’t able to do so. It was our own intervention that made it possible. We thought we were impeding it, instead we caused it.”
Mauvin brushed his palm. “But then, why didn’t you take advantage of the situation?”
“We were too busy saving our own life.” A surge of sorrow suffocated Hadrian for a while. “There was only one place for initiating the flooding, but once it started, the place closed with everyone inside trapped. It was the security system to avoid the water to surpass a certain level.”
“They wanted to kill you,” Mauvin understood, in horror.
“Two birds in one stone, really.” Hadrian snorted. “We managed to find an exit point, but that allowed the water to drain in the main room and Ballentyne to steal the projects.”
“Clever, if you think about it.” Royce had returned, soundlessly as usual, making both of them flinch. “Unfortunately the necessity of my demise really lowered my appreciation of the plan.”
Hadrian sustained Royce’s stare: no point of hiding he fully know the other would have been able to listen the entire conversation.
“Since you spilled the bean, you can at least say all the truth,” Royce said.
He hid the pain better than Hadrian, who rubbed his stingy eyes. “There was a woman.”
“Of course there is,” Mauvin said, but his humor lacked bites.
“Name’s Gwen. A gypsy we’d met in a previous adventures of us.”
“In which she’d saved out life,” Royce pointed out. “The first time.”
“She did.” Hadrian couldn’t help a smile. “She had a pleasure house in Montmartre, where she hosted us while in Paris, but she travelled with her group in all Europe, so she could aid us if we need it.”
“And she was in Venice?”
Hadrian closed his eyes, remembering Gwen’s figure with her pink and violet dress, her smile behind the glass as they explained the plan, Royce completely smitten by her.
“She insisted to come. She was in that closed room with us. She sacrificed her life for us.”
Royce was toneless. “The only way to escape from that was if one person keeps manually a grid opened. She told us she would be able to follow us and insisted about it. She lied.”
Mauvin didn’t break the silence for a while, sank in thoughts, as for the first time he realized his suffering wasn’t unique. “Without her, one of you would have died.”
“One of Gwen’s ability was reading the tarots.” Hadrian tilted his head to look at Royce. “I always wondered if she knew beforehand and she knew she was walking to her death since the beginning.”
“Does it matters?” Royce asked.
Hadrian didn’t answer, because the truth would pain him more.
“Don’t you want your revenge?” Mauvin asked, at last.
“The situation is a lot more complicated.”
And Hadrian had no intention to explain it. Venice’s was Riyria’s story, but what had caused it was Royce’s personal one. He wasn’t going to violate his partner’s privacy like that. It was the reason even Hadrian didn’t know in fully the details of that event.
“But we’re about to face Ballentyne. That’s-”
“Ballentyne isn’t the problem,” Royce stated. “It’s the man behind the entire plan we need to be careful about.” And, looking Hadrian straight in the eyes, he said, “Merrick Marius.”
Despite being tempered by the grieving for King Amrath’s death and the concern for Alric’s whereabouts, Mauvin couldn’t hide his excitement for his first mission as a musketeer, as he sat at the table with the others, the map of the London Tower unrolled in front of them.
“This is the most accurate one I manage to put it,” Royce said, “thanks to our old floor plan and any information Myron collected in the past days.”
“I used the Diary of a Traveler by LIBRI and also the LIBRI, which was a very hard romance but it felt very accurate to me.” Myron counted the books on his fingers.
“You read strange books, for a monk,” Mauvin pointed out, making him blush.
“Surely Ballentyne modified things in the meantime.” Hadrian tapped the edge of the parchment.
“For sure we know he keeps his airship there, probably docked here.” Royce drew with his index finger a circle near the wall of the tower. “The three city walls and the ditch surely remained. The garrison will increase its usual number of two hundred soldiers, just for us.”
“I’ll be personally offended if it isn’t at least doubled,” Hadrian said.
“Ballentyne’s commander, Breckton, can call until five hundred men at once.” Royce scolded. “Happy?”
“Definitely.”
Mauvin studied the three walls. “You have already been there once, right?”
“Yes, the time we stole the crown jewels,” Hadrian stated, serious.
Myron exchanged a look with Mauvin. “When you speak like that, I can’t say if you’re telling the truth or not.”
“Never mind.” Royce waved his hand. “We can’t use the same tactic twice.” He tapped the most internal wall. “Normally, I will climb the wall. At night, no one can spot me and almost no one expects me to be able to do so. Hadrian is good for a distraction, luring the guards away so I can slip inside.”
“Ten or twelve soldiers at once aren’t a problem for me,” Hadrian stated. “I don’t fight an entire garrison, but I’m good at giving the idea I can. And if I do so, they tend to overkill with the reinforcement.”
“But Merrick knows our tactics. He definitely advises Ballentyne to order his men not to move from his safety boxes.” He tapped an area on the last floor of the tower. “Two or three men I can defeat, but more than that I’m at disadvantage.”
“We may use the fact that those soldiers can’t move. If we steal a uniform…”
“Yes, I guess you may infiltrate the group and I can be the diversion.” Royce eyes scanned the maps.
“The space is narrow inside the tower, there can’t be more than fifteen, and they may not be able to call for help if you’re good enough to lure everyone. I can defeat them and then you can climb safely.”
“But Ballentyne knows our faces. He’s an idiot, but if well advised, he may pass a description to his soldiers.” Finally, Royce noticed Mauvin waving. “Yes?”
Mauvin had the impression Royce was doing it on purpose. “He doesn’t know me.”
And Mauvin was self-confident enough to propose a battle one against fifteen.
“Yes. Thank you for your input.” Royce returned his gaze to Hadrian. “Merrick knows us too well. He probably already predicted all our possible decisions based on our previous mission. We need to do something we never do, subvert his expectation. We need to do something we have never done and we won’t normally do.”
“Like what?” Hadrian asked.
Royce turned to Mauvin. “Ballentyne doesn’t know you. So you can infiltrate his garrison. That’s our ace card.”
Mauvin blinked. Then turned to Hadrian. “Did I stutter before?”
“No, he was just being an ass, don’t worry.” Hadrian sneered.
“You wanted to be a musketeer?” Royce asked. “Well, this is it.”
Mauvin grinned.
“Royce is coming,” Merrick stated.
Archibald paced in front of his windows. “You know for certain?”
“I just received the confirmation.” Merrick sat at the desk and arranged the pieces on the board. “But I’m not surprised. The Dauphine asking them for help was the certain outcome.”
“Well, then I’ll be ready to receive him.” Archibald punched his palm. “I’ll double the men in the tower. Ask them not to move, no matter the confusion. I put archers on every wall.” He snorted. “I want to see Royce climbing a wall with arrows in his body.”
“Do that and they’ll surely take the brush,” Merrick said calmly.
“What?”
Merrick tapped the black queen with his index finger. “Royce is aware of my presence here, and he’s aware I know him very well. He won’t use his usual simple tactics.”
“Well, then?” Archibald crossed his arms. “What I’m supposed to do?”
Something was unnerving in Merrick’s calm. The man acted as if everything was a chess game and people were no more than pawns, without counting that in reality, real lives were at stake. In his presence, he felt like a child. At least Saldur had the decency of valuing him.
“If this entire story comes out, Ethereld won’t hesitate to have me execute.”
“Every good gamble has its risk.” Merrick let the white king roll out the board. “Your prize for this success is great.”
“It is.” The thought of it made Archibald’s skin itches in expectation. Finally, the place he deserved will be his.
“I hope you remember me when you’ll have entire England.”
Hearing Merrick says it out loud was too much. “Someone can call it treason.”
Merrick smiled. “And how do you call it?”
“Opportunity.”
“Very well.” Merrick stood up and placed three black pawns in front of Archibald, on the decks. “Close all the entrances, shut the windows, put men at every door, and, most of it, tell them to be careful with anyone of their comrades. If one of the musketeers manages to enter, it is sure they’ll find a way towards the brush.” Then, he slammed the pawns out of the desk.
“Consider it done. I have Breckton on the lead.” Then, as he noticed Merrick heading for the door, added, “You don’t stay?”
“As much as I enjoy a mental challenge with Royce, I have another important thing to attend.” Merrick stopped, but didn’t turn to face Archibald. “With my advice, I think you have everything in control.”
“Sure. But don’t you want to be here?”
“Not really. I have the most faith in you.” This time, Merrick turned and his tone tried, and failed, to be reassuring. “You’re like a tower, My Lord. Not the most important piece of the board and the one that can go in only one direction. But with my indication, it is the right direction. The one taking down the king.”
Archibald hated the metaphor. He hated, even more, the patronizing tone. But he needed Merrick for his expertise, and Merrick knew too much.
“Royce was supposed to be the king?”
Merrick shook his head. “Of course not. Royce is the queen, free to do as he pleases. And taking down everything and everyone in the meantime.”
However, there was some affection there.
“And you?” Ballentyne asked. “What are you?”
“My Lord.” Merrick smiled, and it was feral. “The trick is that I’m not on the board.”
Myron wasn’t even acting. His sorrow was real when he saw all the parchments on the ground, the mud already taking most of them. His attempts to collect and reload them in the cart were frustrated by the rest of the merchants that wanted to deliver their goodies inside the first wall. They screamed and swore, which only increase Myron’s uneasiness.
Mauvin, from his hidden niche on the main door, would feel guilty if he wouldn’t have known those parchments were mostly fake and the entire cart disruption was a farce.
“Are you ready?” Hadrian, next to him, whispered. Mauvin nodded: the chain mail itched and he wasn’t used to the English uniform, but it would do.
A division of the tower garrison marched through the door, aimed for the confusion Myron generated. When the last row was there, Hadrian launched and grabbed from behind one of the soldier, pressing the mouth with his big hands. Swiftly, Mauvin took the place on the group before anyone could notice. He spared no second glare to Hadrian, who would take dispose of the now unconscious soldier.
The troop marched in the plaza right when a superior officer reached for Myron. Breckton, Mauvin deduced, by the others’ description. He patted Myron’s back and offered him and handkerchief to clean his face, before turning to the group.
He scrutinized them with a composed look. His voice was commanding, but not unkind. “Four of you, come here and help this monk to free the road. The others, keep going. Formation 6-2-1.”
Mauvin had no idea what that meant, but hopefully following the others would be enough until he managed to slip away and took off the uniform. He marched at the side of his unlike comrades until they were gained access inside the first floor of the London Tower.
There, the troop took off their bayonets and started rushing around. Before Mauvin could imitated them or at least tried tom they surrounded him, aiming at him.
Mauvin lifted his hands, disappointed. “Damn, I was hoping in something a little bit challenging.”
“Sorry about that.” Breckton’s voice came from behind as he strolled calmly in their direction. “But I know every man under my command and my lord specific order to keep attention to strangers.”
He was a good man, just like Hadrian had said. His only fault was being English and under Ballentyne’s order. They’d discussed about informing Breckton of the conspiracy, but apparently the man was too loyal to be convinced. Mauvin understood him and felt a surge of sympathy even if he’d just being caught.
Out of respect, he didn’t struggle when the soldiers disarmed him, stripped him on the fake uniform and cuffed him with heavy manacles. Luckily, it was the standard garrison sword and not his one: Mauvin would have hated losing his father’s rapier.
Catching Royce at the first attempt was wishful thinking, but Archibald couldn’t help but admit he felt a little bit disappointed when Breckton entered in his office dragging his prisoner with him. He wasn’t even Hadrian, but the youngster, the new one Merrick had talked about. With only his undershirt and his arms behind his back, that musketeer didn’t appear formidable at all.
“Are the infamous Riyria fallen so low they have to rely on a kid for doing their dirty work?” He circled around Mauvin like a cat with a mouse.
“Not a kid.”
Archibald smiled. If the kid got angry and talked, all better. Merrick and Saldur weren’t the only one able to manipulate people, obviously.
“I’ll tell you what you are,” he said. “Right now, you are a foreign entering illegally in King Ethereld’s property. And being so clumsy to being caught.”
The musketeer didn’t answer, but pressed his lips together and turned his eyes away.
“This is a death penalty offence.” Archibald leaned leisurely against his desk. “Your country won’t do anything to save you. Given I’m sure your orders came from someone that is about to be trial for treason, they’ll disown you soon enough.”
Again, no answer, only a slight movement of the eyes, as he observed Archibald from below.
“The only way to avoid ending up with your head on a pike is to confess.” Archibald bent a little down and marked the words. “Where are Royce and Hadrian?”
The silence was understandable, but Archibald hated it. “Do you think they’ll come for you? They won’t. You won’t be the first one they left behind.”
That caused a reaction and for the first time the musketeer struggled under his restraint, his eyes warmed with anger.
“The truth hurt, eh?”
“Will you give me immunity?”
Ah, here it was. Archibald gloated inside. No loyalty in Riyria, so it wasn’t unsurprising. “That depends on the value of your information.”
The musketeer hesitated, swallowing down. “They’re already inside. I was supposed to be their bait, so you will focus only on me.”
Archibald eyed Breckton. “They couldn’t have slipped inside.”
“Coulnd’t they?” A smirk. “There were merchants in the plaza just a second before you caught me. And do you think the monk was just an accident? They’re probably heading for the caveau right now.”
It wasn’t implausible. Riyria had proved many times to be able to slip no matter their security. Archibald had trusted Merrick with his insight, but now they appeared just good advices and nothing more.
“Breckton!” he yelled. “Call your men, go check immediately. Close all the door to that corridor. There is still the troop in front of the caveau as I ordered, right?” But they wouldn’t last, not if Hadrian was inside.
“Yes, my lord.” Breckton’s expression was still composed despite his obvious lack of judgement about the monk and the merchants. “But, with all due respect, it may be unwise to move all troops. It may be a trap to free some entrance for them to enter.”
Archibald glared at him. He hated Breckton, with his smartness and his composed behavior. And he hated even more when he was contradicted by him, especially if he was right.
He grabbed the musketeer by the collar of the shirt to drag him nearer. “If you lied to me, you’ll wish to be executed once I’m finished with you.” Then, he shoved him away and he tripped on the ground. “Go check, Breckton. But do it with prudence, if you must. And bring all these men with you. You may need them.”
“As you command, my lord.”
Breckton gestured at some of his men, who marched after him outside. Some soldiers remained, taking care of closing the door to avoid everyone leaving or entering without permission.
Archibald crossed his arm, watching as the musketeer tried to stand up again, his movement sloppy because the restrained hands. The soldiers didn’t move to help him. When the tower bell ring for midday, the sound resounding clearly in the office, he resigned and slumped back on the floor.
“I didn’t lie,” he said. “I am the bait.”
Archibald snorted.
“Just,” the kid continued, “not for entering in the tower.”
There was a cocky smile now on his face. Archibald blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Why don’t you look outside the window, Archie?”
The nickname sounded like a mocking. Of course Riyria hadn’t hidden the fact that Archibald hated being called with that. The challenge was clear in the use of the word, so, without taking the eyes off his prisoner, Archibald circumnavigated the desk and tilted his head near the glasses.
The view from his office was on the main courtyard and the three city wall, but the sun was blocked by something that floated in front of it. Archibald’s eyes bulged.
“That’s my airship!”
A second later, the cannon shoot.
When the bombing stopped, Mauvin lifted his head. Around him, there was destruction. The door behind was completely diverted, the walls spotted with holes. Some soldiers had been hit and lay now on the floor, weeping. The ones unarmed were still on the floor, covered in dust, coughing and trembling as they tried to stand.
Ballentyne was still alive, if frightened, crouched under his desk with his head covered with both arms. Glasses from the devastated windows covered most of the area around him. The big silhouette of the airship was visible outside, floating near the facade.
Mauvin stood up with a jump. With his hands still clasped behind the back, it would be an easy jump. He calculated enough the distance, then dashed forwards. His boots clattered the glasses before he jumped on the windowsill and used it for pushing himself in the air.
“No! Stop him!” Ballentyne yelled.
Behind him, Mauvin heard the sound of swords being drawn and pistols being loaded, but it was too focused on his immediate demise: his push was too low, it wouldn’t manage to landed aboard as he expected. His body slammed against the side of the airship.
Before he fell, two strong hands grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him upstairs.
“Gotcha.” Hadrian smiled, like a child. “Myron! Gets us out of here!”
“Aye Aye Captain!” Then, with a shy smile, Myron added, “I’ve always wanted to say that.”
“Does he know how to steer a ship?” Mauvin asked, after regaining his breath, his heart beating hard against his chest.
Hadrian brought him far from the railing, as Ballentyne’s men were shooting in their direction, hitting the wood of the bow. “Well, I don’t, and you don’t, I guess, and at least Myron knows the theory.”
“I’ve read all travel journal by ships.” Myron’s eyes were on the horizon in front of him, hands firm on the helm. “Never got the chance to practice, though. But I have faith God will guide my path.”
“Thanks to the All-Mighty,” Hadrian stated, and Mauvin couldn’t tell if he was joking or trying to exorcize the risks of their plan by being sarcastic.
“Amen,” Mauvin answered. He was definitely sarcastic.
With a slice of his short sword, Hadrian cut the chain that connected Mauvin’s manacles. Now he could move his arms, but the heavy iron cuffs remained.
“For that, you have to wait for Royce,” Hadrian said. “He has never taught me how to pick locks.”
***
The way to be successful in a chess game was to see at least three moves in advance. Merrick prided himself to be able to see at least five moves in advance, and not only in the game but in real life, which was why he was so successful as a scheming. He was good in anticipating people’s reaction and action.
Even before proposing his plan to Saldur, he’d known what would be the outcome.
He’d knew the princess would have asked the musketeers for help and that they would have been forced to accept, so he’d moved the pieces to trap them in London with Ballentyne, just to have them lose time.
He’d also knew the princess would have tried to contact Esrahaddon despite the dangerous of her situation. But Merrick had intercepted enough letters and studied enough her character to realize she would try to advise her friend and her dearly professor of the danger he would be in. If someone was framing her using him, he was in danger too.
Which wasn’t far-fetched: Merrick appreciated the Dauphine’s smartness. He was also going to use it at his advantage.
If he hoped to have King Ethereld on his side and push him into a war against France, he needed to give him a scapegoat. And he had the right person for the job.
“My Lord.” Poe joined him in the carriage, assuring with wariness that he wasn’t being followed.
“So?” Merrick asked.
“You were right, as usual. I saw Royce in Esrahaddon’s office.” His voice lowered. “I was therewhen he arrived, cleaning the library. They kicked me out and I didn’t trust myself to remain nearby, to not be caught sneaking, so I don’t know what they talked about.”
“You did good.” Merrick already knew: Royce suspected the brush might be already hidden somewhere in Esrahaddon’s possession and he wasn’t take any chance to miss it. “Then what?”
“I didn’t see Royce again, and the professor kept on with his life.”
“And so shall do you,” Merrick ordered. “They’re acting normal just not to raise suspicious. I’m sure Esrahaddon will move soon enough.”
And as he predicted. Professor Esrahaddon left the college in the middle of the night, a dark cloak to cover his figure. Without taking a horse or a carriage, he headed outside the city, to the hills up north. His movements were wary, fearing to be followed.
Despite his prudence, he didn’t notice Merrick pursuing him. After all, he was trained for those kind of mission. And he expected Esrahaddon’s move since he’d let him receive the Dauphine’s letter – the code was nice for an amateur, but elementary to crack down. She warned him, so Merrick was sure Esrahaddon would move to warn Degan Gaunt.
The chasing ended two hours later, once Esrahaddon reached a thin crevice, almost invisible outside because of the big tree raising in front and the thick vegetation that grown around.
It was astonish that the hidden place for the most wanted man of England was so near a big city like Oxford, but Merrick approved it. Better being in a place no one would suspect of. And it was a nice place too, because from outside it was almost impossible to see inside and an army would have find hard to enter giving the narrow passage.
Merrick suspected no many people were inside, but still too much for only one person. But he had no intention to catch Gaunt, for now. Just have enough information to pass to Ethereld later.
However, he walked nearer when he noticed Esrahaddon was taking too much time to leave, trying to catch some conversation. There was a minimum risk that the crevice had another exit point.
“Come, Merrick.”
Royce.
He shouldn’t have been there.
Merrick walked inside as if the situation didn’t surprise him. The crevice widened in a cave with a small hole on the ceiling that let the moonlight enlighten the rock walls. Royce stood there, back against one wall and arms crossed, eyed him behind his hood.
“Esrahaddon left from the other side.”
“I guess much.”
“Should I be disappointed you underestimate me so much?” Royce let his arms lose and took two steps forward. “Do you really think the same trick will work two times? You want to use us to trick Esrahaddon in revealing Gaunt’s hideout, so I used it to reveal you.”
Move and countermove. This time, Royce anticipated Merrick’s better. Merrick expected Royce could have guessed he hadn’t left the brush with Ballentyne, or that he would try to deliver it to Esrahaddon to make the con complete. He hadn’t expected Royce using it against him.
“Where is the brush?”
No point in resisting. Royce was stronger and faster as a fighter, and in the dark he was even more at advantage. Merrick took out the brush from his pocket and stretched the hand. Royce grabbed it and tucked it inside his cloak. Then, he drew Alverstone, the blade glinting in the dim light.
“You wait long,” Merrick said. “I expect you to look for me soon after Venice.” He’d tried to be irretraceable as possible, but deep down he was aware that, if Royce would have looking for him, he would have find him nevertheless.
“Because of Gwen?”
Merrick nodded. “I didn’t plan it. It wasn’t a revenge because of Jade. She wasn’t supposed to be there. But the scale is balanced, now. You have no reason to hold back.”
Royce’s expression didn’t change. It wasn’t dark or threatening, just serious, a quiet acceptance. “If she wouldn’t have been there, I would have to decide between dying or let Hadrian dying. Do you think it would have been better?”
It was a weakness, considering Hadrian less. Merrick somehow had still problems processing the way Royce had found a new, more successful partner in someone that was so profoundly different from him.
“Your death was a causality I keep in consideration,” he said. “But I also had enough faith in you to think you may have find another solution to save you both.”
A small smirk tugged Royce’s lip. “Tell me: if it would be me or Hadrian, what do you think I would have chosen?”
“You wouldn’t have. Hadrian would have chosen for you.”
But the reply surprised Merrick. “I wouldn’t have let him.” Then, he breathed. “I know you didn’t plan for Gwen. It was Arcadius. He told you about the flooding, did he?”
“Yes. And I told him how I planned to use it.”
Merrick remembered how Arcadius had been convinced of the importance of the mission for France. Despite being an old musketeer, the man wasn’t as loyal to the royal family as he should. On the contrary, in his mind a war against England was more important for him, to restore the pride of France in Europe, even at the cost of his pupil’s despair. Merrick didn’t understand all of his thinking, but it had been useful.
“But he didn’t tell me about Gwen. I do not know why he did that.”
It was a move that made no sense.
“I do.” Royce’s tone was of quiet acceptance. “I would have marry her and leave the musketeers for good. Arcadius didn’t want that. He helped me, he trained me, he wasn’t ready to let me go so easily.” He snorted. “A pity his plan turned against him and the failure he caused was the failure of the musketeers too.”
Arcadius was a smart man; Merrick had enjoyed some chess play with him. But sometimes, he had been blind to some obvious consequences of his moves.
“You didn’t kill Gwen.” Royce put Alverstone away. “I did. I’m not killing you for that.”
The certainty of his demise was so profound in Merrick that the confirmation of his survival froze him for a second, which Royce took advantage to surpass him and heading toward the exit.
“If you let me live,” Merrick said, “we’ll face each other again in the future. You know I won’t be kind enough not to play with your life on the line.”
Royce stopped but didn’t turn. “Then I’ll repay you with the same courtesy, without any more debits between us.”
But there was still a debt. Merrick pulled out his pocket a small rolled parchment closed with a red ribbon.
“Take this.”
“What is it?”
“A proof you may need, signed with Lord Braga’s sigil. It was my assurance… now it’s yours.” There was no trick in Merrick’s offer and Royce understood, because he took the parchment without looking at it. “But this round ends in a draw. Since you came this far for Esrahaddon, you won’t be in time for the Dauphine’s process.”
At that, Royce smiled. The feral smile he used after a successful mission and that Merrick remembered very well.
“I have a fast ride.”
When Merrick left the cave, few minutes after Royce, the silhouette of the airship was still visible in the clear sky, heading towards France.
It two one second for Royce to open Mauvin’s manacles with his picks. Mauvin relaxed once his wrists were finally free and he brushed them to regain better their mobility and their blood circulation. Red marks stood out on the skin, but they wouldn’t scar.
“I didn’t teach you because it’s a too refined art for you.”
“Maybe you should admit you suck at teaching.”
There was something soothing in hearing them bickering again. Royce glared at Hadrian, but it appeared more like an affectionate gesture.
“Rather tell me: what about Merrick’s paper?”
“Well, basically Braga admits in it to hire Merrick for a conspiracy against the Royal Family,” Hadrian said. He had hidden it in his breast pocket. “Sure he can claim it is a fake, but with his sigil and his writing style, no many people would be convinced.”
“Well, well.” Royce crossed his arms with the satisfied expression of a cat that just got a mouse. “So in the same mission we save a prince, a princess, the entire France, humiliate Ballentyne again, surpass Merrick in a mind game and even get this wonderful ship.”
Mauvin suspected the fact that the airship didn’t make Royce seasick as normal ships had something to do with his good humor.
“A definitely successful mission.” Royce turned to Mauvin. “You’re lucky. You got an easy one.”
“An easy one?” Mauvin repeated, eyes wide.
Hadrian, with an amused smile, nodded. “Definitely an easy one.”
“It’s unthinkable! An outrage! Treating like that the Dauphine of France! What are we, barbarians? Or worse, English?”
Lord Valin’s tirade brought a smile to Arista’s lips. It hadn’t happened anything she hadn’t expected to, but seeing that not all nobles were immediately smitten with Braga and Saldur’s hypothesis was refreshing. Even if they didn’t like her much, they weren’t ready to jump on their side.
“They didn’t even let you attend your father’s funeral! What will the others think of France? And now this… this farce! This abomination! This mockery of a trial!”
Again, nothing unexpected. Arista knew that a king’s murder wasn’t something to be taken lightly and the court couldn’t wait too long for a funeral and an investigation. Only her brother’s disappearance delayed the inevitable. Her father’s burial should be followed by a coronation, but how to proceed without the Heir and with the other heir suspected of treason?
“They should be outside looking for the Dauphin, not here accusing you of such dreadful things. Their insistence about Alric’s death is suspicious.”
Arista took Valin’s hands in hers. “I appreciate your concern, truly. And I’m confident that with such men like you on my side and with God’s mercy, the truth will prevail.”
But, inside her, she couldn’t help but worry. It was Alric’s jacket the one they had found, bloodied and pierced, in the forest outside Paris.
“What if Alric is really dead?” she whispered to Hilfred, as they were called again into the courtroom. “What if I miscalculated and send him to his death?”
Hilfred’s loyalty prevented him from squeezing her hand in a comforting gesture. Instead, he said, “You send Melissa to check, and she reported that the musketeers took the Dauphin in custody from his lover’s house before the Cardinal’s guards. They will protect him.”
She had asked them to. Objectively, Hilfred was right. The jacket might be a fraud made by Royce and if the musketeers would have failed, Saldur wouldn’t have hesitated to reveal Alric’s body in the trial. So she needed to assume they were still unarmed and on their way to completing their mission. But it was hard not to worry, and not to wonder if Alric would forgive her for her actions.
The only thing she could do now was to gain time: they hadn’t talked about Esrahaddon’s letters yet, but when they did, it would be over. No noble would stand on her side if she failed to present the brush.
“Lord Valin,” Saldur said, once everyone had taken place in the courtroom. It was the first time he took the lead, which had delivered to Braga at first. “We are aware of your discomfort, and believe me, it is shared. One week ago, we have a king and a clear succession. Now our king was murdered, the Heir possibly dead too and suspiciously fell over the Dauphine. It isn’t a good situation.”
Valin crossed his arms, refusing to be involved in the parade. “Yet, we’re here.”
“We are, because out duty forces us to find the truth. No one will be happy than me to discover this is all a misunderstanding.”
Saldur left his seat near the judge and Braga and strolled towards Arista, who sat with Hilfred on the first bench, alone. His smile seemed sincere, sweetly.
“I saw your birth,” he said. Arista didn’t let him touch her hands, and he didn’t press. “I don’t want to believe any of it. But, as a religious man, I think we need to consider the heart of everyone involve in here and try to take the best path.”
Arista remained silent.
“Our Lord and Savior looks at all his children with mercy, even the ones that lost his way,” Saldur continued. “And where men can’t find forgiveness, he will. Won’t be better for everyone to let it go of the burden and embrace God’s forgiveness?”
“Speak clearly, Eminence, please,” Arista said. “I’m just a silly woman who possess nothing of your wisdom.”
Saldur concealed the snort soon enough. “My suggestion is for you to confess your sin, Arista, and I’ll grant you the forgiveness of God. Won’t you like to spare all your subjects,” and he widened his arms to embrace the public around, “to continue this painful trial?”
Of course they wanted her to confess. Her own words would be difficult to discredit later, while the letters were more a risk, especially if the musketeers were on their way to recover the brush. Unexpectedly, that give her strength.
Time. She needed to gain more time. She looked outside the window, giving the idea of reflecting on it. Clouds were swirling around, the sun came and went in the not-so-clear sky.
“I’m sure the judge will be merciful too,” Saldur pressed, taking Arista’s silence as a surrender. “Maybe you have been… misguided. We can understand it. We can accept it. The law won’t be harsh on you.”
“Very well.” Arista stood up. Her face was serene, but her voice cracked a little. “You all know my mother died in a fire when I was little, and I barely escape death thanks to my bodyguard.” Her hand gestured towards Hilfred. “My father was the king so he couldn’t give me the love my mother used to. Nor he lull me at night, or told me fairytales.”
Her head lowered down, her pain sincere thinking about her father and the few but important moment they’d shared together. The fact that they were using his brush to hurt her was enraging her.
“But he loved me very much and he proved it, many times, in his own way. And I loved him too. I would never hurt him.” He lifted her head and looked straight at Saldur. “I swear, I didn’t kill my father. Please, God, on your mercy and wisdom, as men are fallible, give us a sign, protect your daughter and all us from falsehoods.”
The room stilled. A second later, a ray of light from outside enlightened her figure, her golden embodiment glinting with the risk of blinding people looking at her. The room exploded into chaos, people screaming about the God’s will or witchcraft or other intelligible things.
“Order! Order!”
Braga called for the guards to clear the courtroom until the people wouldn’t regain their composure. Arista retreated back in her room.
“That was incredible.” Hilfred’s admiration was genuine.
Arista shook her head. “Just a little bit of luck and the knowledge of the palace well enough to anticipate where the sunrays would fall.”
The trick wouldn’t last. As soon as they would be called again in the courtroom, Braga would take the letters in consideration, and there would be no miracle to convince the nobles, not even the ones that now were convinced of her innocence’s sign. But she gained time.
Now everything was in the musketeers’ hands.
The voices were hushed. Mauvin didn’t mean to pry, but he didn’t want to interrupt the conversation either.
“You’re angry with me because I didn’t kill Merrick,” Royce was saying.
Hadrian laughed, humorless. “Not at all. I’m angry I didn’t kill him.”
A pause. Then Hadrian continued, “What? Do you think I don’t want revenge too? I loved Gwen. Not as you did, but she was family. I dreamt of gut the man that put her at risk.”
Another pause. “Why didn’t you do it?” Royce asked, and his tone was resigned.
“Because Merrick is your friend. Whatever happened in the past between you two, is yours. I have no intention to stick in it.” A sigh. “Unless you want me to.”
The sound of steps moving around. “Do you think I should have killed Merrick?”
“You know, I’m happy you didn’t in the end.”
Royce snorted. “I’m turning soft.”
“You’re becoming a better person.” Hadrian patted him. “If I recall back what you were when we met the first time… And look at you now! Being all merciful and such.”
“Don’t get used to it. Merrick is an exception.”
“Gwen was too. And Myron. And Arcadius, in a way… And Mauvin, too, I guess? And of course, I am the biggest exception.” Hadrian’s tone was amused. “Looks like you have many exceptions to your rules.”
“Keep talking, I dare you.” But the tone was affectionate. Then, out loud, “Come, Mauvin, I think you heard enough.”
Since Royce had probably heard his steps long before and decided not to interrupt his conversation with Hadrian, Mauvin wasn’t ashamed when he perked out the corner. “Myron wants you on the main deck.”
They shared a look between them, the confirmation of a long friendship that needed no words, then stood up to follow Mauvin. Myron was still on the helm.
“What is it, Master-at-arms?” Hadrian asked. He liked getting along with Myron’s knowledge of ships.
Myron pointed at the horizon. “That’s strange.”
There was an accumulation of white clouds that moved irregularly and had some dark spots here and there “A storm coming? We can avoid it, I think.”
“Not a storm.” Royce’s expression darkened. “No, no,” he anticipated Hadrian’s question. “I’ll let you the surprise.”
They focused on the cloud. They started dissipating as another airship emerged from there, big and armed with cannons and soldiers. At first Mauvin guessed it was Ballentyne, pursuing them, until he noticed the French flag over the sails. After that, it was easy to spot Luis Guy on the main deck, just at the side of the figurehead, Thranic behind him.
Hadrian swore under his breath.
“We should have expected it,” Royce said. “Merrick worked for the Cardinal since the beginning. Of course he copied Da Vinci’s projects.”
“But their airship is bigger.”
Royce shrugged. “Maybe Merrick delivered Archie only part of the project. Or hired a better engineer to improve them. Not a surprise, in any case.”
“You have something that doesn’t belong to you,” Luis Guy yelled. “And you can’t escape this time.”
“Are you sure?” Hadrian replied. “My experience told me dimensions aren’t as important as the ability to use it.”
Luis Guy wasn’t amused. “Do not fret your demise, shall we?” And he gestured behind him.
One of the soldiers dragged a bound and gagged Alric on the desk. He wore the same clothes of the last time Mauvin had seen him, without the jacket, and they were now ragged and muddied. Dry blood spotted on the right side of his forehead and dripped down his cheek, but other than that he appeared unarmed.
And absolutely furious.
“Are you ready to surrender now?” Luis Guy asked.
“Oh, this is a problem.”
Royce crossed his arms. “They have to be extremely confident of their success if they have no trouble taking the Dauphin hostage.”
“Our options are very limited now. We can surrender, but with zero guarantees that they would let him go.”
“They wouldn’t. They’ll accuse us of his murder. Surrender isn’t an option.”
“But if we fight, we may kill the Dauphin by accident. Or they’ll kill him if they’re losing.”
“We have to think about France.” Royce took off the brush and rolled it in his hands. “If the prince dies but we’ll still be able to report back to Arista, we’ll stop the war against England and she may be able to succeed her father as the Queen.”
“But that won’t give Saldur and Braga more power, using the fact she’s a woman against them?”
“Maybe. But we’ll be alive to help her, and she will be too. If we fail, both she and Alric will die.”
Hadrian breathed heavily. “We’re choosing the better between two worse?”
“Basically.”
Mauvin listened to the conversation with wide eyes, at first unable to interrupt them, then enraged by the decision they were about to confirm. “No! We can’t abandon Alric.”
“Saving him is too risky,” Royce replied. “France may survive without him, but not without him and Arista.”
“This isn’t about France.” Mauvin snapped the brush away from Royce’s grasp and lifted him in the air, yelling towards the other airship. “An exchange! The brush for the prince!” He walked towards the parapet. “I came aboard your ship with the brush while the Dolphin came aboard ours. Once he’s safe, I give it to you.”
The others watched the discussion without intervening. But when Luis Guy moved to order his men to lower a catwalk, Royce said, “Do you realize they’ll attack us the moment they grasped the brush?”
“And they’ll kill you too,” Hadrian added.
“Well, that’s accidental. Any hope for France will rely on us escaping now.”
Mauvin knew. It was well aware of the risks, even if he had enough faith in the Two Musketeers to be less worried about France’s destiny. But he didn’t want to lose Alric. He couldn’t.
“Tell me you would have done the same thing as me if there would have been Gwen on that ship.”
The silence that followed was the answer.
Alric was beyond fury. In the last few days he’d been kidnapped, manhandled, hurt and kept prisoner as if he wasn’t the fucking Dolphin of France. Being used as a hostage for an exchange was the last of a long series of humiliations that brought him to his limit, with his mind only capable of thinking scenario after scenario about how he would torture those that had wronged him.
But when he was pushed on the catwalk, still bound and gagged, all his attention focused on Mauvin.
They strolled carefully towards each other and met right at the center. Mauvin’s expression was attentive, as he scrutinized Alric from head to toe. Alric expected him to talk, to give him one of his cocky remarks, but then Mauvin turned and continued his path towards Luis Guy’s airship.
Alric had to focus on his steps not to fall overboard, so he could turn his head only when Hadrian’s strong arms grabbed him and lifted him aboard. Only then he could look back, but they’d already closed the cargo hold, hiding Mauvin’s figure from sight.
As soon as Hadrian cut his restraint, Alric tore the gag apart. “I’ll have them tortured to death. And the quartered!” He was trembling, the rage and the adrenaline mixed together.
“Myron, take us out of here!” Royce ordered. The airship veered abruptly to the side.
“What? No!” Alric sprang to his feet. “We need to save Mauvin.”
“We don’t have time.” In the time Royce jumped to the nearer cannon, Luis Guy’s voice resounded in the air as he ordered his men to shell against the musketeers. The airship trembled dangerously as it was hit.
“Mauvin surrender to give us a chance.” Hadrian’s tone was sympathetic, but firm. “We must not waste his sacrifice.”
With that, he was out, dashing to the below deck to put the other cannons in action. Alric stood there, fist close in rage, hating to be powerless. He strode near Myron, that despite his red face and the sweat that rolled down his forehead, kept the helm secure.
It was clear they had few chances: Luis Guy’s airship was bigger and had greater firepower. If they were hit on the wrong side, they wouldn’t be able to float anymore. And that imagining the airship would remain intact, which wasn’t a certain outcome.
Gunfire exploded in the air. Royce swore as the airship’s bottom cracked. The airship tilted dangerously to one side. Myron stood by grasping the helm, while Alric lost his balance and rolled on the deck.
“Hadrian! Are you okay?”
“Fine!” came di muffled answer. A second later, he appeared in a rush, covered in wooden dust. “But the cannons on the right side are gone.”
Alric pushed a hand on the railway to steady him. As infuriating as it was, they needed to escape, because they couldn’t fight at such a disadvantage. He scrutinized the sky, searching for an idea, until he spotted a group of black clouds, enlightened from time to time by thunders.
“There!” he pointed. “We can hide there!”
Myron looked at Royce, who nodded. “Not a bad idea. We’re lighter-”
“Now that we lost our firepower, even more so,” Hadrian added.
“-and inside there it would be harder to follow us.”
Myron immediately rolled the helm on the left, to steer the ship in the right direction. Royce climbed the tree and arranged the sails so they caught the wind better. The other airship was momentarily blocked in his way by the strong gush that came suddenly, but it was still on their tail.
“What do you want to do, Your Majesty?” Royce asked, as he landed back on the deck. “The storm may give us some time to escape, but it isn’t a certainty.”
Alric looked at him while his mind recalled the last events, the way Luis Guy’s men pursued him as he’d impersonated Mauvin. And even when they’d recognized the mistake, they had pushed his head on the ground, wounded him, almost killed him.
“I want them to die. I want them to suffer, and then die,” he said. “And I want to save Mauvin.”
“Don’t look at me.” Hadrian shook his head at Royce’s inquiring look. “I don’t get to decide for you to complain about my suicidal desire or my obsession with good deeds.”
Royce scolded, but there was a smirk on his face. “I haven’t beaten Merrick at his own game just to be defeated by the likes of people like Thranic. And now I have the legal authorization to kill him.”
They didn’t kill him immediately, as Mauvin had expected. They just took the brush, disarmed him and knocked him down. When Mauvin’s head stopped spinning enough for him to be aware again of his surrounding, he found himself in the main deck, restrained by his arms by two soldiers.
The sound of gunfire had momentarily stopped and the airship was flying steady. Luis Guy was there, a foot on the parapet as he scrutinized the horizon, the brush glinted inside his breast pocket.
Following his gaze, Mauvin spotted the musketeers’ airship. It was damaged, but still able to sustain itself in the air. By its course, it was clear they were heading voluntarily towards the storm in an attempt to escape their pursuers. But they looked so slow Mauvin feared they would be reached.
Do it, do it, do it… And relief fell upon him when the airship disappeared inside the black clouds.
“What do we do, Sir?” Thranic asked.
“We follow them,” Luis Guy answered. “The Cardinal gave us freedom with the Dolphin, but if he reaches Paris with the musketeers it may be a problem.”
“You’ll never take them there.”
Mauvin’s attempt to discourage him was met only with a dismissal look from Luis Guy, who still didn’t order his execution, as he commanded his men to get ready to face the storm. Perhaps he believed that Mauvin’s presence would prevent Riyria from attacking.
Once inside the storm, the musketeers’ airship was nowhere to be seen, while around him there was the blackness of the clouds, the deafening sound of the thunders and the blinding of the lightings that crackled all around them.
“Sir! Over there!”
Everyone lifted their gaze upon them, Mauvin included, in time to see the other airship shooting in their direction from above, their remaining cannons pointed at the airship’s balloon.
“Second round!” came Royce’s voice over the thunders, a second before the bombing started.
They hit the stern and one of the tree connected to the balloon. The backslash made the airship roll on the opposite side and unbalanced the people on the deck and the soldiers around the cannons. Lightning exploding near made it unsteady.
Luis Guy slipped on the floor, his head hit the parapet. Taking a chance of it, Mauvin kicked the leg of his first captor, then decked the other against the upper deck’s wall. He collected back his sword. Around him, the soldiers were too focused on the airship attack, so he leapt forwards and stripped the brush from Luis Guy’s pocket.
“After him!”
Thranic noticed his action, but too late. Mauvin dodged a soldier as he parried with another one, then throw himself inside the below desk. He closed the door after him and locked him. It wouldn’t hold, but Mauvin didn’t plan just to hide.
If only he could get Myron’s attention from the helm, he might be able to return on board…
The attack from below had put the other airship in a difficult position, unable to answer the fire from a bottom angle. But if it was enough to slow it down, it would take more to effectively disable it. Once they finished the little firepower they had left, Royce and Hadrian moved on the parapet, keeping their balance despite the storm infuriating around them, which made difficult for Alric to remain steady.
Royce’s dagger was already in his hand. “Ready?”
“To the boarding!” Hadrian winked at Myron, who smiled.
And they were out. Royce leaped on the airship balloon’s, his hand able to grasp the leather fabric, Alverstone piercing and cutting through it. Despite the difficult position, Royce moved on the balloon like he was on the ground, his gestures a flawless dance as he kept making hole in the balloon, puff of air swirled around the cuts.
Instead, Hadrian had used a rope to land on the airship’s desk. His main aim wasn’t to defeat the crew, which was too numerous even for him, but to impede them to hit Royce as he ended his job. That was an acceptable task, because some men were too busy steady the ship in the storm while other still tried to bombard the other airship.
Once Royce was satisfied with his job, he landed next to Hadrian to give him a hand. The airship was losing altitude because of the balloon’s disrupt, but not fast enough to have a crash. Myron followed the course as both airship emerged from the storm.
Alric peered up from the parapet: Mauvin was nowhere to be see. They were now flying over a big city Alric didn’t recognize, but big enough to have his own cathedral. The enemy crew was throwing overboard the cargo in order to regain altitude. As much as it was reassuring seeing the cannons go, they risked hitting people below.
And they couldn’t be allow to escape or to crash over the city. Hadrian and Royce were still fighting in the middle of the chaos.
“Myron! We need to do something!”
Myron bit his lips, observing the airship’s keel brushing the bellower’s roof. “I may try something I read once…”
“Well, do it! Fast!”
Alric regretted not having asked what Myron meant the moment he realized it, but it was too late to stop it. Myron let the airship drop at the same height of the enemy one and the drove it against the other. They were made slow by damages and the remaining of the storm, so they didn’t destroy each other, but the other airship was pushed against the cathedral’s roof and stuck there, the spires making a good docking space.
Alric, who had been throw against the parapet by the force of the impact, opened back his eyes and free his head by his protective hands. He glared at Myron, whose trembling hands were still on the helm, then climbed over the parapet.
On the other desk, the hit had thrown everyone down, including Hadrian and Royce who weren’t on Alric’s sight, but not all of them had been knocked out and they were slowly regained their feet. With the two airships so intertwined, they could get on board easily.
Alric realized he’d basically delivered himself back on his enemies’ hands, if he didn’t do anything.
One of the soldiers realized it too, and eyed Alric with a grin of satisfaction. Alric recognized him immediately: it was the same soldier that had managed to grab hold of Alric’s horse during his escaping attempt. Humiliating memory returned back, the way he’d been kicked and dismounted, kept in the dirt with his head pressed down.
Anger surged inside him. Before the soldier was near enough, Alric sprang to action. He collected from the ground an abandoned sword and launched. Surprised by the sudden movement he couldn’t anticipate, the soldier wasn’t ready enough to parry as Alric stuck the blade in his neck.
The soldier staggered back, gurgled something incomprehensible then fall down, the sword standing out his body. Alric looked at the scene and panted, the adrenaline seizing his body, until he felt a hand grabbing his neck.
It was Thranic.
“Well, princeling, that was a bad decision.” His sword was dangerously closed to Alric’s neck.
Then Thranic halted, his mouth half-opened as a line of blood slip out his lips. He released the sword, and Arlic, and drop on the ground death, revealing the figure of Royce with a bloodied Alverstone drawn and a satisfied grin on his face.
“I save you, so this isn’t illegal, right?”
Hadrian flanked him, his swords out too, his gaze fixed on their airship. “Smart idea, but you could have warned us first.”
“Sorry!” came Myron’s voice.
Alric regained a composure he’d lost, his legs still trembling but steady enough to sustain him. “Where is Mauvin?”
Mauvin groaned, his body complained about the blow he just received. It was confusing at first: one second he was running away while Luis Guy was shooting at him, one second later he’d been thrown out of balance and now he was on the ground, his bottom body stuck below a pile of cases from the cargo that had dropped on him.
In the crash he lost both the brush and his sword, that lied on the floor in front of him, but out of reach. He tried to crawl away, using his nails to pull himself, when he saw boots strolling in his direction. He lifted his gaze in time to see Luis Guy towering over him, the gun aimed at his head. But when he press the trigger, nothing happen.
“You’re lucky, it’s empty.” Luis Guy threw away the gun and bent down to collect the brush. He kicked away the sword as he walked away.
With a frustrated grunt, Mauvin trashed his body, his nails dug on the wooden floor. The cases were heavy on him, but he kicked one enough to pull his body out of it. His muscles throbbed and he was sure that he would be covered in bruises soon, but nothing was broken. He rushed outside, taking only the time of gripping his sword.
The airship had landed on a church’s roof. While there was still some commotion on the main deck, Luis Guy had thrown out a rope from the stern and was now walking at the edge of the sloping roof, with the clear idea of disappearing in the city’s crowd. Mauvin looked around for a way to reach him and saw another rope dangling from the sail.
He grabbed it, the pushed with his foot to gain speed. He flying in the air, twisted around and then jumped down. He rolled a little and grabbed with hard one of the spire to pull him up. He was now two meters in front of Luis Guy, effectively blocking his path.
“Give me the brush.” Mauvin’s sword was drawn and ready.
Luis Guy gave him a mild-annoyed gaze. “If I have to kill all the Pickering boys, I will.”
That was unexpected. “So you remember me.”
“Of course.” The tone was cold. “I expected a fight against a former musketeer, but you were so kind to come first. After that, your father was too busy saving your life than opposing me.”
Mauvin tightened the grip on his blade but didn’t move. This wasn’t about revenge, even if he wouldn’t mind taking it. This was about France, and Alric, and being a musketeer. “Give me the brush.”
“Fine, then.” Luis Guy pulled out his own rapier.
The two faced off on the roof. Mauvin was the first to launch an attack. Luis Guy was skilled, every slash parried and counterattack, the blade slicing on Mauvin’s clothes. He was fast enough to avoid being hurt, but he was forced to step back.
Then Luis Guy advanced and pull out another short sword. Mauvin twisted and gripped the other’s wrist while still parried the other sword. He disarmed Luis Guy by tightened the grip, but the effort left him a little bit defenseless, so he couldn’t avoid the kick Luis Guy gave him.
Mauvin lost his balance and fell down, rolling on the sloping roof, but he was fast enough to grab the gargoyle at his right side before dropping entirely from the roof. Luis Guy was there, waiting for him. Mauvin dodged the first slash and dashed forwards to recollect his rapier who had lost in the fall.
His father’s rapier.
He brushed the hilt with the tip of his feet to lift him in the air, grabbed him in time to parry Luis Guy’s sword, but the backslash staggered him and made him lose the grip of the rapier, who flung in the air above him. Mauvin blocked the sword with his own hand, the blade digging in his palm as Luis Guy pressed forwards: if he couldn’t cut Mauvin, he would throw him out of the roof. Mauvin’s feet were dangerously near the edge of the gargoyle they were fighting on.
“You shouldn’t have left the Gascony,” Luis Guy said.
Then the rapier fell down and Mauvin’s hand clasped it and then pushed it, piercing Luis Guy’s clothes until his heart.
“You shouldn’t have killed my brother.”
Before Luis Guy’s dead body dropped down, Mauvin snatched back the brush and the kicked him. He didn’t look at him as he descended towards the ground, a loud sound to end the fall.
“Mauvin! Mauvin!”
The Dolphin was there, unarmed, climbing down in his direction, with Royce and Hadrian behind him, to assure he wouldn’t break his neck. There was a relieved smile on his face.
Grinning, Mauvin raised his arm: the golden brush glinted in the air.
The way her uncle was reading Esrahaddon’s letter was too theatrical for Arista’s taste, but the rest of the public was enthralling by it. She expected it: the court loved drowning in gossip and scandal. Finally, the trial was becoming interesting.
Braga stopped just before the last, incriminating letter. “Do you want to say something, nephew? I’m not happy to read these, you understand me.”
Sure you aren’t, giving you spent the last two hours reading all of them until the last details. “No, uncle. I don’t deny a correspondence to Esrahaddon, and it was nothing illegal. He is an Oxford professor.”
“But you have to admit, some of his insinuation are… a little bit daring.”
“Yes. You don’t have my answers at those.”
The audience wasn’t buying her explanation: the letters were a mixture of real and forged, so the little hint about Gaunt and the England throne were already there. It was hard to believe she wasn’t aware of speaking with a possible traitor.
“I don’t have your letters, but I assure everyone, I have enough to prove how your reaction was.”
A dramatic pause, that created tension in the room, before grabbing the last letter and declaiming it with a great wave of gasp between the public. Even Lord Valin, for the first time since the beginning, seemed uncertain.
“Where is your brush, Arista?”
She grabbed his skirt: it was over. She’d done everything she could, but in the end she couldn’t stop time. The only remaining hope was that Alric still lived and somehow could prove her innocence later on to avoid the war.
“Hey, what’s that?”
The sudden exclamation brought Arista to her feet: everyone was looking outside the window. The sun was clouded by a round object that was falling dangerously against the palace’s backward gardens. The more it came nearer, the more it was recognizable. Chaos erupted in the courtroom.
“It’s Ballentyne’s airship!”
“He’s come for the princess?”
“is this an invasion? A declaration of war?”
Upon all the voices, Braga and Saldur who peered from the windows to order their guards to be prepared for an attack. Red and black uniform lined up, swords in hands. When the airship crashed unceremoniously on the ground Arista noticed it was heavily damaged.
Hadrian and Mauvin, swords drawn, jumped down the parapet to face the Cardinal’s Guards. With them, a monk that fall down with not so much grace behind them. Arista’s heart fluttered and she felt Hilfred held his breath on her side.
“Those traitors!” Braga gritted on his teeth. “Capture them! They kidnapped the Dolphin!”
“What’s going on, gentlemen?”
Alric sauntered with grace from a hole in the airship; the clothes he wore were English style, not his usual fashion, but clean, and he appeared unarmed but for the bandage on his head. He raised an eyebrow at the guards and they shifted uncomfortably. Hadrian and Mauvin moved at his side, sheathing their blades.
His sudden appearance increased the confusion. Arista didn’t miss the look Saldur and Braga exchange, evidently putting off balance by it, before the people flooded outside the room to welcome the Dolphin’s return.
“Alric!” Braga rushed before everyone else. “We thought you in danger, or even death!”
“We’re so pleased to see you unarmed,” Saldur echoed.
Arista remained a little bit on the sidelines. Royce’s absence at Hadrian’s side was suspicious to say at least.
“This confusion is my fault.” Alric completely ignored the two by addressing directly his nobles. “I wanted an airship since the first time I saw it and asked the Musketeers to help me recovering one. We were on our way back when Myron,” he gestured at the monk, who lowered his head courtesy, “warned me about my father’s murder.”
“So the Musketeers didn’t kidnap you?” Lord Valin darted his eyes a second on Braga, remembering his early accusation against Arista.
“Dear Lord, no!” Arlic’s expression shut down as he turned to Saldur. “But someone tried to kill me and that was the reason I am so late. Your men, Cardinal. Luis Guy and Thranic.” He self-consciously touched the bandages.
Saldur paled. Instead, Braga was fast to react. “Sire, it is clear there is a conspiracy against you and your father. It appears more people, even before our best men, were involved than we thought. We were about to prove who was responsible.”
“And who is the man that corrupted even the most infamous guards of the kingdom?”
“A woman, Sire. I’m afraid it is your sister.”
Arista expected Alric to look at her, but he didn’t. He didn’t even look surprised. “Do you have proof about this, I guess.”
“I have.” Braga delivered him the letters and Alric took all his time to read and examined them thought, one after another, while the nobles around became hasty. “We were about to proclaim our judgement on this.”
“These could be fake.” Alric gave them back at the end of his examination.
“It is easily proved, Sire.” Now Braga’s tone was more and more assured. “If the brush is missing…”
“Lord Valin.” Alric turned to the man. “Can you please go to my sister’s room and recover it?”
Since Lord Valin was the most upright men around, no one, not even Braga and Saldur, could complain he was chosen to the task, because no one would believe him of any conspiracy. The presence or absence of the brush would be untied to his presence. Two guards accompanied him still. He was back in ten minutes, the decorated iron box in his hand.
Lord Valin opened it in front of everyone: the brush was there as usual, placed on the red silk. It brighted as it had been cleaned recently. Arista released the breath she wasn’t aware to have kept.
In the meantime, Royce had slipped soundlessly next to Hadrian and was now smirked like a cat.
Alric was bored. “Well, it settled it then. Let’s talk about the real traitor now.” He took a piece of parchment from his breast pocket and deliver to Lord Vailin. “I personally recover this letter from Luis Guy’s body when the musketeers saved me from his assassination attempt.”
The more Lord Valin read, the more his face reddened in fury. He waved it in the air, addressing Braga. “Lord Chancellor! This is your writing and your signature! You were the one ordering the Dolphin’s assassination and the frame of the Dauphine.”
The nobles erupted, every single one of them piling on Lord Valin in the attempt to read the letter. They couldn’t plea, like Arista did, because the document came from the future king himself and no one was ready argue with him. Even Saldur realized it because he stepped away from Braga.
“I helped you all this time, for the kingdom’s wellbeing…” Saldur grabbed Arista’s hands. “Your Highness, I beg your forgiveness, I was fooled too.”
She was merciful enough to give him a patronizing smile.
Being abandoned by his closest allied and with his soldiers lost in battle, Braga’s destiny was sealed. So, instead of accepting it with grace, he drew his sword and dashed. Hilfred put himself between him and Arista, but Alric was his primary objective. The blade was intercepted mid-air by Hadrian, who had strangely use his big spadone.
“Be careful!” Arista yelled. “He’s a great swordsman!”
Hadrian grinned. “I heard it before.”
The two faced each other in the round of noble, Alric who didn’t do anything to stop them. Hadrian was taller and more muscled, however his way of moving had the same trim elegance of Braga, despite the big sword he was swinging around.
Braga parried every move, but it was clearly at disadvantage and forced to step back. The more he realized, the more his attack became frantic, the more Hadrian managed to counterattack them. Until Braga launched an attack that surpassed Hadrian’s defense, but right when the blade should have pierced Hadrian’s side, he moved his spadone fast from the right to the left hand and with a strong movement, he disarmed Braga.
The spadone continued his course and severed Braga’s head. The nobles around screeched and moved not to be hit by the spurt of blood. Braga’s body fell on the ground in the pool of his own blood.
“Apologize, Your Majesty.” Hadrian scrolled his bloodied sword. “Maybe you would have wait for a trial.”
“It’s fine. Will someone clean this mess?” Alric stepped forwards and took Arista’s hand in his own, with a smile. “Now that this situation had been resolved, we have a coronation to prepare, right?” He tilted his head to Saldur. “Since I missed my father’s funeral.”
“Of course, Your Majesty. Right away.”
“And send someone to repay my airship.”
Before returning in the palace, Arista eyed the Musketeers, who haven’t moved from their initial position: Royce and Mauvin were bickering about something. Hadrian reserved him a warm smile.
***
When his sword landed on the side of his last opponent and the public roared, Mauvin grinned at his family that was watching the competition for the sideline. His father beamed with pride and that was the best reward Mauvin could even ask for. Sure, he had to bear his sister’s suitors, about whom he already had a possible list of duels, but it was worth having his family there, until he was granted the permission to a leave for returning home.
After greeting his opponent, Mauvin left the field and trotted towards them. His mother welcomed him with a long, bones-breaking hug while Denek, hyper excited, jumped from one side to another and pleaded to become a musketeer too.
His father, instead, said, “That last attack was sloppy. You were lucky your opponent didn’t see it or he would have blocked it and then counterattack from below.”
It was expected, from him, from a man that had taught them to use the sword when they were barely able to walk. But he was also smiling and Mauvin dwelled in the familiarity of all that.
“Never rest, he? That is a good attitude.” Cardinal Saldur was there, patting Mauvin’s left shoulder as if they were long friends. “This one is really a good fighter.”
“Thank you, Excellency.”
“I may have some tasks for someone like you… and your other two comrades, of course. Your skill will be put in good use.”
Now Mauvin understood why Hadrian and Royce sneaked away at the first occasion from the coronation’s feast. The fact that Saldur trapped him with his family’s presence wasn’t a coincidence. Mauvin doubted he’d resigned his aim at the France’s throne and separated the new king from his trusted men was the first step, even if, for someone that didn’t know the entire story, Saldur’s proposal might be an honor.
“Thanks, but I already have a job.”
Saldur’s face tightened a second. “Of course. But you may regret it.”
“Maybe.” Mauvin tilted his head towards the main grandstand, where Alric was trying to shake off his nobles and attendants and leave. “But not today.”
“Very well.” Saldur nodded politely, but he trumped away with irritation.
“Do not stir problem,” his father warned Mauvin.
“I try not.” For his benefit, the entire Luis Guy affair wasn’t public, and Mauvin hadn’t said anything: after all, that wasn’t revenge but his duty as musketeer. “Can you excuse me a second?”
He ignored Lenare’s sarcastic sneer as he strode away: Alric had finally lost his entourage and was now heading towards the gardens surrounding the main path of the palace’s courtyard.
When Mauvin reached him, Alric sat on a marble bench below a violet broom pergola, his heavy crowd and his red fur mantle that he had to wear for the crowning ceremony abandoned on a side. Despite the elegant clothes, he looked a lot like when they’d first met.
“Enjoyed the show?” Mauvin asked, luring his attention.
Alric’s surprise expression turned into a smirk. “Are you always this cocky?”
“Only on Thursday.” Mauvin sat down next to him. “And when I want to impress someone.”
“Oh, so you’re trying to impress me?” Alric bent near, their faces closer.
“No, it’s Thursday.”
Alric emitted a gurgled that was a hidden laugh, then shook his head. “Well, good, because I’m not impressed.”
“If I’d want to impress you, I would do this.”
Mauvin slid his hands on Alric’s face, first a brush of the fingertips, then he cupped it entirely. Alric didn’t staggered back when Mauvin kissed him.
With a box of Montemorcey and a barrel of ale, bot stolen from the banquet, Hadrian and Royce were privately drinking at their success, far from the pomp court that was celebrate the coronation. From their envied position on the palace’s roof, the people below appeared small like ants.
“You can’t tell me you didn’t love it.”
Hadrian made a face at his glass. “It’s the best I have in a while, true, but not so exceptional.”
“I meant our success,” Royce pointed out. “We save a princess from an executed, you get to play hero against Braga, the kingdom celebrates you… It is the kind of good deeds you love.”
“Well, you got your fair share out of it. One hundred gold?”
Royce snorted. “Which I will use to find another place to stay. Now that Myron can rebuilt his monastery, I doubt we’ll have more place there.”
“We may buy lands. In the country land.” Hadrian stared at the horizon. “Bourgogne, maybe. Have a nice tavern there, a honest job.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Royce huffed. “You love this job. Especially now that we’re being restated as the main kingdom’s force and the princess herself wants you at the palace service. Besides, you will be a bad bartender.”
“Not as bad as you.” Hadrian gulped down the ale. “So, then? What do you plan?”
That was the big question, wasn’t it? Royce never had the big dreams of Hadrian and, most of the time, his actions were only a mean to survive, and hopefully in a way that allowed him some goodies, like his favorite Montemorcey.
Only one time he saw his future.
“I would have marry Gwen, you know.”
Hadrian wasn’t surprised. “You should have done it sooner.” There wasn’t judicial, as an admission of guilty, more a personal regret. “She was a saint, waiting you pulling your head out of your ass.”
“I was busy helping you pulling your own out.”
Royce hadn’t told him about the truth behind Gwen’s death, and didn’t plan to. What was the point? The man was a long gone.
“If you plan to stay here and defend the kingdom from the Cardinal’s plot, you’ll find yourself on Merrick’s path again.” Royce settled better his position. “And you’ll be killed at the first occasion. Maybe it’s better if I stick around for a while.”
Hadrian smiled. “You love this job too, don’t you?” And since Royce didn’t answer, he dipped his glass. “One for all.”
Royce grunted, but clinked his own glass against the other. “All for one.” -
.
“There is a visitor for you.”
Edith managed to communicate with a sneer. The woman did never hid her distaste for Arista and her word, but she tolerated her presence as long as she was paid. And she asked a disproportionate amount of money for that hovel that’s been Arista’s residence in the past few years.
“A visitor? Who? For what?”
“I’m not your doorman.” Edith shrugged.
Of course not, Arsta thought, however you take your chance to call me by yourself just to pry on things like the old gossiper hag you are.
“Please send him in.”
Him turned out to be a her, a delicate woman all dressed in the black clothes of mourning, her hair neatly arranged and her face clean, both hid by a little hat with a black veil. Despite the good fabric of the clothes, they appeared overused, so Arista wasn’t sure if the woman was noble or not.
“Are you Arista Essendon? The lawyer?” She looked around, uncertain. Arista ignored the confusion of her room, where books and papers took every available space and piece of clothes lay on the floor.
“I am.”
Again, the woman hesitated. “I heard you’re cheap.”
“Cheaper than a man.” Arista made a face: all the clients she’d gathered in the years came to her for her convenient tariff. At first, she couldn’t had asked for more until she’d realized no one would pay her more, no matter her success. People relied on her as last chance.
However, she wasn’t prickly about her clients. Little they paid, she needed the money. She freed a chair by throwing unceremoniously the content on the floor and gestured at the woman to take the seat.
“Why don’t you tell me your story?”
The woman nodded. She sat timid, her gloved hands hid in the black gown, gripping the fabric with strength. It would be polite to offer something, but Arista couldn’t afford a stove in her two-room apartment, so she just took place in front of her.
“I am Amilia Tarin. I work as a personal secretary of Lady Modina Novronian.” Her eyes darted away from Arista’s face for a second. “Do you know who is she?”
“The owner of the Novronian Manifactory, right? It’s a textile company.”
Amilia nodded. “Lord Novron found it thirty years ago. It was a very modern fabric that included a workers’ village, just near Adda river. Lady Modina is his granddaughter, despite illegitimate, and inherit the company five years ago.”
“Someone is questioning her rights?”
Amilia’s hands tightened on the fabric. “Lady Modina had been arrested this morning for the murder of her husband, Lord Lanis Ethereld.” For the first time since the conversation started, Amilia lifted her head and looked straight on Arista’s eyes. “She didn’t do it! Modina won’t hurt a fly! Life at the village increased significantly since she has been in charge. She is our savior. And she has no reason to kill her husband.”
Arista kept her breath: that was the high-level case she’d been waiting for. Defending successfully a Lady of that fame would force people to realize that her talent wasn’t watered down by her being a woman and that she could hold her ground in court.
But, “I imagine the Lady can afford more famous, experience lawyers.” Knowing their types, “I assume most of the prominent firm already offered their service.”
Amilia shook her head, her eyes teary. “I thought that so. But for what I heard, not many want to be involved with the case and Modina refused the services of the others.” Her voice cracked. “I fear she plan to declare herself guilty.”
“For which reason?”
But Amilia didn’t answer. “Please.” She grabbed Arista’s hands. “I can’t pay you much, but Modina needs help. She can’t leave us.”
“If she already rejected others, why do you think she’ll see me?”
“I don’t know. But Modina is willing to listen.”
More than the idea of participating in a so high-profiled case, it was Amilia’s worries that convinced her. After all, Arista hadn’t become a lawyer only for the intellectual aspect of it, otherwise she could have be content in being an assistance.
No, she was there to help people too, especially the ones that other lawyers would look down to.
“What are you, again?”
“A lawyer.”
The prison watch laughed. Then halted as he notice Arista’s stare. She proceeded to pull of her pursue the official document that certified her entry to the Bar. Arista had learned to bring it always with her because people not believing her was a habit in her life.
“Fuck me, she is a lawyer,” the guard burgled as he read the paper.
“Can I see Lady Modina now?”
“Yes.” The tone was annoyed. “But she is a lost cause.”
The cell was a lot cleaner and spacious than the ones in lesser prison Arista was used to: there was even a real mattress in there. However, it was dark grim as everything else and except for two neatly blankets and a piss pot it was almost empty.
Modina sat on the bed, back against the wall, legs hanging leisurely over the mattress. She barely ducked her head at Arista’s entrance. What hit Arista more wasn’t Modina’s obvious beauty but her silent determination. She was a delicate creature, with sharp features protected with bright blonde hair, skin fairy. But the eyes! If one was able to look over the emptiness, they could see the iron at the bottom of them.
“I am attorney Arista Essendon.” She remained standing in front of Modina, hands clutching her bag. “Your secretary Amilia asked me to represent you, so I’m here to offer my service.”
“Ah, Amilia.” The tone was soft, almost a whisper, clear in the empty cell. “Such a kind girl. My dearest friend. She’d been a comfort for me in the past years. I am sorry to have put her in such distress.”
Unsure if it was a confirmation, Arista remained silent. Modina’s eyes wandered around, but she continued only when she focused again on Arista.
“I’m sorry you made all the way to here, but it isn’t necessary. I did it. I killed my husband.”
“Why?” The question came to Arista’s lips before she could stop them.
Curiously, Modina observed her. “Because I am nuts. Haven’t you heard the stories?”
Arista left the prison without convincing Modina to sign her hiring. And with the conviction she would defend Modina by the accusation: if Arista was something, stubborn would be a good way to describe her. In Modina’s words she’d recognized too much of herself, the way men looked down at her despite having obtain the same results as them, sometimes even better results. And of course, when they couldn’t explain something, they relied in the old, rancid explanation “she’s crazy”.
But not in Arista’s watch, she swore.
“A courier from the Court came to deliver a letter for you,” was Edith’s welcome when, later on, Arista returned to her lair.
“What is it?” Her mind was too full for the subsequently plan for her investigation. She would need to show Modina the prospect of victory to convince her.
“I don’t read personal correspondence, dear girl!”
“Don’t you?” But Arista wasn’t in the mood to argue about Edith’s improper behavior. She snatched the letter from her grasp and marched towards her apartment, closing the door behind her.
“And you haven’t paid this month’s rent!”
Because she hadn’t got any clients. Even if she wouldn’t do it for money, at least she could survive and who knew, maybe finally afford a decent office. But she didn’t have time to dream of it now, she had an investigation to take care off.
Back against the door, she tore the envelope to read the letter inside.
And her entire world shattered.
It didn’t surprise her to see Julian opened the door: the man was ancient and he’d been serving her family for generation. Instead, he was shocked. His eyes darted at the hallway behind her, as fearing something, then bent forwards.
“He didn’t want you here.” A whisper. “He expressly order to send you away.”
“This is my home too.”
Essendon Manor was a two-store villa in the north-west area of Milan, surrounded by a garden that isolated it from the city’s traffic. Her father had specific built it for her mother, who had come from noble family of Bergamo. Arista had grown up there, running in that same garden, climbing tree and peeling her knew during the games with the boys.
It was only a technicality that only her brother inherit it after their father’s death.
Not wanting to put Julian in a difficult position, she added, “Just tell him I’m here, I’ll deal with him.”
Julian was still unconvinced, but in the end his affection for her won. But it hadn’t been necessary, because the moment he turned her brother appeared from the stair, strolling leisurely towards them. Surely he’d spotted her arrival from their father’s office, whose windows faced the main garden and the gate.
Since the last time Arista had seen him, Alric hadn’t changed much: he only dressed more elegantly and he was trying to grow a bear which, in Arista’s opinion, only served the purpose to underline his youth. The look of distaste in his face was the same.
He dismissed Julian with a gesture of his hand, and he was more than happy to scurry away from any siblings discussion it was about to start. Alric’s eyes hadn’t move from Arista.
“What are you doing here?” The tone was aggressive. “If I remember correctly, last time you run away with the promise to never come back, as you slammed the door behind you.”
She hadn’t definitely slammed the door, that was over-dramatic for Alric’s part. But she couldn’t point it out, not if she wanted to regain a little in Alric’s good graces.
“I don’t know where else to go.” Alric raise an eyebrow but didn’t comment: Arista understood that he wouldn’t be satisfied until she spilled the entire ordeal. “The Court of Appeal had found my inscription of the roll of lawyers was illegal and, subsequently, banned me from it. I can’t practice my work anymore. I don’t have money and my landlady throw me out. I don’t… have friends that can host me.”
It wasn’t entirely true, it’s just that most of the time they had barely what it was enough to sustain them. The perks of having cheaper rates.
“It’s just for a while, until I manage to get back on my feet.”
“And how? Since you don’t have a work anymore.” His expression were patronizing. “What did you say last time? That you didn’t need anyone help, less of that our father’s.”
She took a deep breath. She knew it would have been difficult, but Alric was voluntary twisting the knife in her wound and she knew she had to keep bleeding. “Do you want to humiliate me more? Because right now I’m not beyond it.”
Alric observed her from head to toe and for an instant she feared he would kick her out. Instead, he sighed. “Is it your only luggage?” He tilted his head towards the bag she had in her hands.
“No, I have other two boxes… I left them at my old apartment for now.” If Edith hadn’t already sell them.
“Later on, you can ask Julian to recover it for you.” He moved from the doorstep to let her enter. “You can use your old room.”
She did it hesitantly, but the more she stepped inside, the more relief and familiarity fell upon her. “Thank you, Alric. I know we haven’t been in the best term but-”
He stopped her by raising the index finger in front of her face. “My home, my rules, that’s the agreement. I don’t want any more insanity about you being a lawyer and absolutely no attempt to appeal to the Supreme Court of Cassation in order to have your name back on the roll. You can take all the time you need her to find a suitable occupation for a woman. Am I clear?” He didn’t wait for an answer from her part, but swirled on his heels and strolled away. “We dine at seven.”
It was to be expected. Arista tightened painful the grip in her bag, but she didn’t have any sneaky remark against it. For now, she could only rely on the fact she had a roof on her head for the night.
As she’d expected, the manor brought many memories back to her as she walked the hallway, the family photos hanging at the walls. Her father had been so proud of her when she’d gain the law degree, only to oppose her when she’d asked to be part of his law firm. At that point, the separation, although painful, had been inevitable.
Arista’s only regret was not being able to show her father her success before his premature death.
With that grim thought in mind, instead of going directly to her room, she stopped to the bathroom: she needed a moment to wash herself and calm down, if she had to face her brother again at dinner.
The door opened with a creak sound. She absently-minded placed her bag on the floor, just next the entrance.
“What the hell…?”
The voice lured her attention and, when she lifted her head, she found herself face to face with a man. A clotheless man. Startled, Arista screamed and jumped back, immediately slamming the door in the man’s face.
Alric rushed at the sound. “What happened?” He was more annoyed than worried, as if Arista’s arrival was already disrupting his routine.
“A… naked man. There is a naked man in the bathroom…”
“Yes, because I was bathing.” The not-anymore naked man left the room with a towel wrapped all around his body like a vest. He and Alric shared a meaningful look, then he turned to Arista. “Glad to see you haven’t changed.”
Now that she wasn’t distracted anymore by the rest of him, Arista observed his face, recognizing in his dashing featured and his wet, messy hair, her and Alric’s childhood friend. “Mauvin? Oh, I… didn’t expect you here.”
Alric groaned. Mauvin raised an eyebrow. Surely it was more common to see Mauvin at Essendon Manor than Arista, who had been banned for years. And she was the one walking in without knocking. Her stay would be harder than she expected.
“I think I’m going now.”
Mauvin’s amusement was clear. “See you later. I’ll be dressed I promise!”
At the dinner table, the tension was palpable. Alric was looking everywhere but on Arista, who, on the contrary, was trying to avoid Mauvin’s face not to remember their previous encounter. Even Mauvin, who Arista remembered chatty, was having a hard time to find an argument he felt save speaking about, especially considering the abruptly answer he got.
It was becoming ridiculous.
“I thought…” Arista began, unsure how putting her idea on the table. “In the meantime I stay here, I can give you some help with your case…” Her voice was less and less confident as Alric’s expression darkened. “You know, examine the dossier, writing down reports, something like that.”
Alric threw the spoon in his soup. “What did I say about it less than two hours ago?”
“I just want to help. I may not be a lawyer anymore, but I have a degree. I won’t bother you about being in court or anything, I just want to help.”
Before Alric had any chance to reply, Mauvin intervened, “Well, you have complained about not finding a good assistant recently.”
Alric threw him a betrayed look and Mauvin hurried to be suddenly extremely interested in cutting bread.
“Why instead you don’t do something useful, like asking your sister to invite Arista at one of her girl-only meeting?”
Mauvin swallowed a piece of bread. “Sure. She has one scheduled for tomorrow, I think. I’ll let her know.”
Oh, no, no, Arosta thought, but there was little she could do. She looked pleading at her brother. “If I go, then I can help with your work?”
“I’ll think about it,” Alric conceded, at last, after a moment of pondering. It was a victory on her part: she had seen how much papers to check he had in his office.
“There is another thing.” Arista said it casually. “I accepted a case before they banned me from the roll, so I wonder if you can take it in my steady.”
“Which case?”
“The defense of Lady Modina Novronian.”
Mauvin whistled. Alric shook his head. “Forget it.”
“Why? It is a high profile case, one of the kind our father loved. And she needs our help. I promise her I will find something to save her.”
“Well, that will teach you not to make promise you can’t keep.” Alric poured wine in his glass. “There is no way they won’t find her guilty, not when two witnesses found her over her husband’s body with the murder weapon still in her hands. It’s not a high profile case, it’s a certain loss. I won’t involve our father’s firm in it.”
“They won’t treat her fairly because she is a woman that owns a company.”
“Well, maybe that’s why women should do men’s work. No, Arista.” He lifted a hand to stop her. “We have an agreement over this. I don’t plan to argue with you every day now.”
“Good luck with that,” Mauvin whispered, not low enough for Arista.
The fact that Alric didn’t want to deal with Modina’s case didn’t mean Arista couldn’t do a personal investigation over it. That was something they couldn’t ban her from. If she would find something enough to put the prosecutor’s version under review, she might be able to convince Alric to take the defense, or Modina to hire another lawyer.
First thing, she attended Ethereld’s funeral service. It was held in Percepliquis, the village just near to the fabric. Novron was a luminary in his field and an innovator: he’d built the village for his employees so they could have everything at their disposal a few meters from the working place and for free. The descendant of the first worker still lived there and worked in the fabric.
Arista expected more people at the local church and the following procession that brought the coffin in the cemetery just at the end of the village. It was a cloudy day and the street was muddy and full of puddles. However, it should be a deterrent for people to attend their boss’ funeral.
Only a handful of people were present: some authorities, Ethereld’s few remaining relatives and some employees who, from their clothes, weren’t workers but administratives. Arista’s presence stood a little bit too much in the group, so she wasn’t surprised when someone approached her.
“Journalist?”
The fact that the man thought she was there for work was a pleasant surprise. However, Arista was aware of the bad reputation of journalist. “A distant relative of the decease.” It wasn’t even a lie. “I expected… more people. I guess he wasn’t loved?”
“No, it wasn’t…” The man was clearly upset from the question. “Most people are working.”
But Arista had noticed the gaze behind the windows as the procession walked the street and they refused to go outside, even to salute the coffin from their doorstep. She lend her hand.
“I’m Arista.” She introduced herself. “I had the pleasure to meet Lady Modina too, and I know she is well loved.” It was an assumption made by Amilia’s dedication, but giving how the man’s face brightened, not a far-fetched one. “I was just wondering if it was a form of protest against her arrest.”
“Gerard.” The man shook her hand. “Are you sure you’re not a journalist?”
She laughed. “Definitely. I hate them too. But I do wonder if I can do something for Modina.”
Gerard looked around, but Ethereld’s relatives seemed in hurried to leave, with no interest in talking with the village people. So he gestured at Arista to follow him to the local tavern and he started talking only before a glass of wine. The tavern was empty, but he still kept his voice low.
“It’s not like we don’t like Lord Ethereld,” he started. “It’s just that he wasn’t present much, you know? It is Lady Modina that takes care of everything.”
“Well, she was Novron’s daughter after all.”
“Oh, she is!” Gerald beamed with proud. “After Novron’s death, the fabric passed for a brief period under the church’s jurisdiction. They have no idea how this kind of fabric work. Then they recognized Lady Modina as his illegitimate daughter but, by his will, she has every right on his property. Once she was in charge, everything went back as it should have. The fabric and the village flourish, she was even able to expand both the production and the service, hiring more people. We all love her.”
“I guess you don’t think she was her husband’s murder.”
Gerard’s face fell. “I know what people say of her, but… no, she wouldn’t have done that unless she was forced to.”
That was very interesting, because Amilia seemed more convinced Modina just wouldn’t kill anyone, while Gerard talked about a proper motivation.
“Such as?”
“Something or someone was in danger.” Gerard lowered his voice. “Ethereld wanted to convert the production into weaponry. Lady Modina was against that.”
Oh, that didn’t look good, because it meant that Modina had a motif for murder. “But the fabric was hers, so Ethereld couldn’t do anything without her consent.”
“That’s true.” Gerald sip his wine: he was also thinking about it too.
“Who will inherit the fabric if Modina is found guilty?” Arista asked. She needed to find someone else that would benefit from Ethereld’s murder and Modina being accused of it. “Since they haven’t children.”
“The church will regain control of it.” Gerard finished his wine. “That’s why we’re all worried. First about Lady Modina’s destiny and about ours too.”
Since Arista needed to remain on Alric’s good side, in the afternoon she put on her best clothes and called for a carriage to transport her to Drondil Fields, the Pickerings residence which was situated in the countryside for Lenare tea party.
She dreaded the moment of her arrival, when all the women of the high society would see her only for speaking against her back at the end of the day. So she released a relief breath when she noticed that other than Lenare only another girl seated at the table under the pergola.
They both wore casual gown, but made of expensive silk and elegant, golden embroilment. Unlike Arista, that kept her air arranged in a simple low chiffon, they had elaborate hairstyles with braids and ribbons. By the way they sat, they were used to that sort of event. Arista took place in front of her, thinking she hadn’t dread university exams so much.
“Lady Alenda Lanaklin, Arista Essendon,” Lenare introduced them before asking for the tea and sweet to be served.
“So, Lenare told me you’re a lawyer.” Alenda began the conversation casually, after eating a piece of cake. “Surely it is exciting.”
“It has its moments.” Arista wondered why Lenare hadn’t specified about her ban: she’d expected her to gloat about her failure.
“Mauvin told me you’re handling Lady Modina’s case.” Lenare took a minuscule piece of cakes with the golden small fork. Then, to Alenda, she added, “You know her, right? Your family trades with the Novronian Company.”
“Oh, yes!” Alenda swallowed. “The cake was delicious, like usual.” She took another bite. “I’ve never met Modina in person, you know? She was very reserved, or so they say.” She tapped her temple with the finger. “Others that she is a little crazy.”
“Why is that?” Arista asked, too hard. Modina had talked about that kind of accusation before.
“Oh, I don’t know exactly.” Alenda shrugged. “She was a farmer, before the church found that she was Novron’s illegitimate daughter. They dragged her in her rightful place and married her off to Ethereld. Voices said that the first years she didn’t leave her room, didn’t speak a word, barely wash and eat. And,” she lowered her voice, “she made a suicide attempt once or twice.”
“This is strange, because the workers of Percepliquis consider her a worthy director. Said she is in charge, not Ethereld.”
“Oh, I heard that too.” Alenda nodded. “Ethereld was most for public relationship, he made deals, and so on. He was more than happy to have Modina deal with the workers.”
Lenare snorted. “Men had the strange habit to define women crazy when they defy their expectation.” She threw a meaningful look at Arista, who had to admit, had been called crazy in many occasion.
“Was the marriage happy?”
Alenda pondered, looking at her empty plate. “Who knows? Modina is very reserved, and I’ve never seen her during an event. But nor her not Ethereld were talked about liaison or such. And he seemed content that his wife doesn’t care for balls or expensive jewelry or such. But that’s all I know.”
Arista reflected on the new information she was acquired. “Who married her off?”
“The church, of course!” Alenda bent in a conspirator way. “By Novron’s will, any children of his would inherit his company, which means the church was only temporally in charge. Ethereld was the manager they hired for it. When they found Modina, well…” She widened her arms.
“They convinced her to marry Ethereld so they would keep a foot inside the company,” Arista understood.
“The official explanation was that it was improper for such a young woman to stay alone, but yes, that is the right reason. I heard they put it in the prenuptial agreement.”
Arista frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, I haven’t seen it, mind you. But I gathered that Modina gave every right to her company to Ethereld, with the promise he would take care of her. He sometimes joked about the fact that he shouldn’t have signed it if he would have realized that Modina was good in her work.”
“That’s strange.” Arista tipped her chin. “Because the administrator I talked with seems convinced that Ethereld couldn’t take decision about the company without Modina’s authorization.”
Lenare shrugged. “Maybe there was some technicality I don’t know. You should ask directly the man that married them.”
“Arista! What a pleasure to see you!”
Bishop Saldur greeted her with a big hug and two kisses on the cheek. It would be embarrassed by someone else, but Saldur had been a good friend of her father and he’d visited her house frequently when she had been a child there.
“I’m really sorry about what happen to you. With the entire trial about your decision to be a lawyer.” Saldur invited her inside his office. “I was the one convincing your father to let you study. It’s really a shame.” He sat down in front of her. “If there is something I can do, please tell me.”
“Thank you. Actually, I’m here to ask about Lady Modina.”
Saldur’s eyes bulged. Surely he hadn’t expect that when Arista had asked for a private meeting with her.
“I’ve heard you were the one that married her with Lord Ethereld and helped them with the prenuptial agreement.”
“I did.” Suddenly, his tone wasn’t as cordially. “Why are you asking.”
Arista hesitated. It was a private matter so Saldur could refuse her questions. “Alric is taking Lady Modina’s defense.”
“Really?”
“Yes. He is looking to expand the firm more, now that I’m there to give him a hand.” Well, that was her plan, at least; the fact that Arlic was at the moment unaware of it wasn’t something Saldur needed to be informed of. “If you can give me some information about Lady Modina’s marriage, it will be great help to us.”
Saldur nodded gravely.
“Starting by why you decided to marry her off in the first place.”
“You have to understand,” he began, with compassion in his eyes, “when we found Modina, she had just lost her entire family over a bandit attack. She was suffering a severe depression. We can’t let her alone to run a company of that size as his father’s will asked.”
“So the solution was a marriage?”
“Ethereld knew the work and he was reliable, we know he would have treated her fair. And he did.” Saldur crossed her arms. “He provided her of doctor for her depression and the best teacher for her education. And, once she recovered, he let her helping with the company’s administration. Against my advices, mind you.”
“Why?”
“I feared that such a heavy burden would compromised Modina’s poor mental health. And I was right, in the end.”
Arista narrowed her eyes, trying to spot any lies behind Saldur’s sorrowful façade, but she saw nothing. “It is also the reason for the prenuptial agreement? The one that gave Ethereld the rights over her company?”
Saldur was still calm. “Novron’s will was precise, the company was Modina’s. Without the agreement, Ethereld wouldn’t have been able to run it, with all the consequences coming from stagnation. The company is in good shape now, right?”
Thanks to Modina, she wanted to reply, but she wasn’t there to argue about it. Not yet, at least. “It’s part of keeping it in good shape that he planned to convert it in a weapon factory?” This time, Saldur couldn’t restrain his surprise. “Modina was against it.”
“It is… our responsibility to keep alive Novron’s will.”
“So the agreement didn’t contain this possibility?”
“Like I said, the company is Modina’s. We just did what was necessary to let her taking care of it.”
Arista wasn’t so sure about it, but at least now she had her answer.
Saldur took her hands in his own. “If I can give an advice to you and your brother, in your father’s memory… don’t take this case. It’s destined to fail and I dread to see you fail with it.”
With Arista’s joy, Alric let her helping with the ordinary job for real. The cases Alric accepted recently were minor and boring, but Arista was satisfied to put her head again in the job. It was hard to restrain her tongue over some of his brother’s decision, but it paid because Alric didn’t force her anymore to attend Lenare’s girl meeting and he even asked her to accompany him in court during one of the sessions.
Being there again was refreshing, despite people dismissing her as the simple assistant.
Arista was about to ask Alric if she could enter in the courtroom with him, when he halted.
“Oh, no.”
An elegant man with sandy hair strolled in his direction. Alric greeted him between his teeth. “Prosecutor.”
Arista hadn’t never had Rudolf Calder as an opponent in court, but voices anticipated him: he was malicious, arrogant and overall unpleasant. The smug grin he had didn’t tempered his reputation.
“Mister Essendon!” Rudolf patted Alric’s shoulders. “Looks like we’ll face each other in court very soon. It’s good to see you back. After the last two or three beating I gave you, I feared you would refuse to show your face again.”
Alric was rigid. “I wasn’t aware of it.”
“How come?” Rudolf’s face fell for a second, but then he grinned. “Of course Lady Modina’s case is mine. Who else can take it? I’m more surprise you decided to defend her, but again, you have a soft spot for women in distress.”
“Lady Modina’s case…” Alric’s eyes shifted imperceptibly over Arista, at his side.
Arista cringed. When the information leaked out? She’d only talked with Saldur, and he had no reason to speak about it. Was it Alenda? But Alenda thought she was the one taking care of it… In any case, she was doomed. She’d planned to convince his brother, but before the news of her investigation reached him.
“Listen, since we’re friends and I would hate to destroy you in court again, let me give you an advice,” Rudolf said, his hand still on Alric’s shoulder. “Plea the mental infirmity. Modina basically confessed. We can reach an agreement where I won’t ask for the death penalty, only life imprisonment in an institute.”
“But Modina is innocent!” Arista blurred out. “She’s not crazy!”
Rudolf passed his gaze on Arista, frowning. “Oh, no, surely she isn’t. But she’s her only saving grace. Otherwise I will prove her guilty and that wouldn’t be unpleasant.”
“She has no reason to kill her husband, and we’ll prove it.”
Rudolf laughed. “Oh, I assure you, she has one.”
“Ethereld’s decision about her company?” Arista narrowed her eyes. “He couldn’t do anything without her. She has no reason to fear him.”
“Oh, no.” Rudolf smiled patronize. “The motif is a lot more… murky. The jury will love it.” He turned back to Alric. “She wants to plead guilty. It’s for her best interest. So don’t be stubborn, or you’ll end your career for real this time.”
“We’ll see about it,” Alric replied. “I don’t have the habit for other people to boss me around, telling how I need to do my work. Let me deal with my clients.”
Rudolf shrugged. “I warn you.”
Alric waited for them to reach home before exploding. “One thing. One thing I asked you, Arista. Since when you took the job behind my back and under my name? I don’t know what’s restraining me by kicking you out.”
“You didn’t correct Rudolf.”
“Of course not!” He paced in front of the window. “What should I have said to him? Sorry, my sister is a pathological liar that doesn’t know her place? That I can’t control even what my family members do? That would have surely improved my reputation.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” Arista intertwined her fingers. “I didn’t mean to set you up. I just wanted to help Modina. I thought that if I can find some evidences that the police oversaw, she could have a chance. I… I only used your name as an excuse.”
Alric glared at her. “Oh, well, thanks. You don’t even plan to have me as a lawyer.”
“You were the one that refused in the first place!” She leaped up.
“And for a good reason! This is an impossible case. If I lost…” His voice trailed down. “We need to find a way to entangled us out of this mess with minimum risk.”
Mauvin chose that moment to perk from the door. “Trouble in paradise?” When both Alric and Arista turned to glare at him, he blabbered, “I’ll be… just… downstairs… if you need me.” And disappeared.
But his presence had tampered Alric’s fury. He slopped on the armchair that had been their father’s and was now too big for him.
“What Rudolf meant when he talked about your lost cases?” And since Alric diverted his gaze, she pressed, “Oh, you haven’t-”
“We’re not bankrupt, if that’s what you think,” he anticipated her. His tone lowered. “But I took some risks, and they didn’t go as expected. I may have some difficulties recently.”
That explained why they had worked with an amount of low profile cases. They were efficiently to regain fast some expenses. “Oh, Alric, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would you have cared?”
“Of course. I-” But she stopped. She knew he wouldn’t have accept her help, but at the same time she had decided to leave in the past. And to lie about her investigation. “Lister. I will make a declaration, taking all the blame of it. Better! I’ll convince Modina to hire another lawyer and have her finding an excuse to fire you.”
Alric settled better on the chair and smirked. “Oh, so now you don’t think we can win Modina’s case?”
Arista pressed her lips together. “I don’t want to drag you down. The family’s business…”
“It’s too late for it. We’re in together now.” Alric grabbed one of his notebook. “Show me what you got.”
They spreaded Arista’s documentation all over the desk. There was a sort of familiarity in it, the way Arista remembered how his father had done the same thing over and over, sometimes allowing her to help arranging some files in his steady.
Alric’d avoided that kind of work as long as possible, but he wasn’t anymore the spoiled boy she remembered. He was now bent on the papers, his forehead frowning, as he tried to give an order to Arista’s notes. She had to admit, usually she had a better writing style.
Then, he lifted his head, perplex. “That’s it?”
“I investigate for few days.” She pouted, defensive. It wasn’t like she had had much time, and Alric had been partial responsable of it.
“But there is nothing here.” Alric gestured at the paper. “Where is the police record? You talked about two eye-witnesses, were are their declaration? And the autopsy report?”
Oh, right. Arista watched her nails. “I couldn’t obtain them.”
“Ah, right, your ban.” Alric opened a drawner to pull out his personal papers and the firm sigil. “I’ll sign up a request.”
“No.” Arista pressed her lips together. “We can’t because Modina hasn’t officialy nominate me her lawyer. Or you, for that matter.”
Alric stopped with his arm mid-air, the papers clutching in his hand. Very calmy, he placed them in the only free space of the desk. “Are you telling me you dragged me in this mess without even having the authorization for it?”
“I would have got it! I just needed some confirmation to convince Modina. She was convinced she would be condamnen either way. I had to find some proof that I can save her.”
“No much luck.” Alric looked at the documentation, depressed. “Even if you didn’t find a motive for Modina to kill her husband, I fear they only need to declare her crazy to win the trial.”
“She’s not crazy!” Arista raised her voice. “I saw her. I spoke to her. She is smarter than most.”
“Well, then she did kill her husband and now she’s playing insane to avoid the death penalty.” Alric snorted. “That will be smart.”
“Or maybe she’s just a successful business woman in a male-dominate society and she’s aware that is something many don’t forget or forgive!”
It was the first time she said it out loud, but the thought was nagging her for a while, the idea that it was a conspiracy to get rid of Modina because she was too good and she was embarassing everyone else.
“Now you’re talking about yourself.”
“You’re both wrong.”
The two siblings turned their head in uninson. Now that Mauvin understood they wouldn’t kill each other, he felt enough safe to stay in the same room as them as they worked, slouched on the sofa while he ruminated nuts from a bowl, like they were the same entertaiment one could see at circus or at zoos.
“Why are you even here?” Arista asked. “You’re not even a lawyer.”
Mauvin shrugged.
Arista turned to her brother. “Why is always here? He do have a nice house, bigger than ours.”
“Oh, you know…” Alric’s head dig back in the papers. “Most of his students are from the city, it’s easier for him to reach them if he lives here.”
Arista snorted. “I hope he pays rent at least.”
“Oh, believe me, I do.” Mauvin beamed in amusement, while Alric’s ears reddened, which gave Arista the idea it was an inside joke between him and Alric she was excluded from. Mauvin throw a nut in the air and let it fall in his mouth. Then, chewing, he asked, “Do you want to hear my theory or not?”
“Let’s hear it.” Arista sighed. “Why do you think Modina doesn’t want a defense?”
Mauvin smirked. “Love.”
Arista blinked. He looked at Alric, but he had the same unconvinced look as hers. Mauvin, instead, seemed so self-assured of himself.
“Think about it.” He agitated his finger in the air. “Rudolf said Modina has a ‘murky motivation’. You don’t use that work instead you’re referring at an illicit relationship. Considering we’re talking about uxoricide, guessing there is a lover involved is not that strange.”
“When do you learn the work ‘uxoricide’?” Alric asked, bewildered.
“Hey, I listen when you talk about your work.”
Arista pondered the hypotesis. Alenda’d said that there were no voices about Modina’s private life. But she was very reserved and she didn’t attent events, so it was entirely possible she’d been able to conceal it, expecially if it was a recent affair.
“Do you really think that Modina is risking her life or, in the best case, eternal seclusion as a mentally ill only to avoid embarassment for her lover?” Arista was talking more to herself. “It seems a little bit too much for me.”
“I’ll do it if revealing the person destroy their life too.” Mauvin was looking at Arlic, who sustained his gaze unconvinced.
“Okay, but what scandal can be to arrive to such an extreme measure?” Arista groaned. “And there’s another thing: why this mysterious lover is ready to let Modina die to save himself?” Dear God, whoever he is, he didn’t deserve her!
“I don’t think it’s the case.” Mauvin was still smiling.
“What do you mean? That the lover is trying to help Modina in secret?”
“She did. She asked you.”
Arista took some times to understand what Mauvin was saying. Then she opened her mouth but for a second she was unable to speak. Alric was the first one to recover. “You think the secretary is her lover?”
“Yes.”
Arista remembered her meeting with Amilia, her tears, her worries, her unshakable faith in Modina. Arista had considered it a normal reaction from a loyal emplyoyer, but thinking back it wasn’t such a different reaction from the one she’d witnessed about brides losing her grooms.
“How Rudolf found out?” Alric wondered.
“No matter,” Arista replied. “If it’s like this, the first thing we need is to convince Modina we can’t avoid the scandal. I’m sure she may be persuaded to be defence only if she is assured Amilia won’t be involved.”
“We can’t guarantee that.”
“We must try!”
Alric passed his gaze to her, then to Mauvin, who offered a little smile, then brushed his fingers over his eyes. “We still have too little information about all this. And we can’t get more unless Modina authorizes us. It’s a dog chasing his tail.”
“We may.” When Alric frowned at her, she continued, “Rudolf was convinced you have the case, only because I said so. We can use it at our advantage. If you sign me an authorization, I can see Modina and confirm everything with her. The guards won’t suspect of a warrant with out official seal.”
Alric considered it for a second, then nodded. “In the meantime, I can go around and ask my aqquiantances if they can provide me some official information. We need the wintnesses declaration.” He took the feather and scribbled down on his paper. “If Modina accept, take her testimony too. We need her version of the story.”
“What about me?” Mauvin asked. “What can I do?”
Alric stopped the seal mid-air. Mauvin continued, “I’m in it too now. I don’t want you bankroup, who will host me otherwise?” He snapped his finger. “I have it. I’ll go talk with this secretary.”
Arista took her brother’s signed paper. “And why she should talk with you? I don’t want to talk with you and you live here.”
“And yet you’re talking with me right now.” Mauvin winked. “Don’t worry, she’ll talk. I have something in common with her.”
As predicted, the guard didn’t complain too much at Arista’s entrance, once she could show her brother’s signature. No one bother to check about their autorization. The cell hadn’t chanced since the last time Arista was there, nor was Modina.
Her way of sitting in that grim place was always delicate, her presence ethreal. Her suffering barely brushed her. Arista understood why the people of Percepliquis were ready to follow her lead. However, Arista wondered how much of it was a pretense.
At Arista’s entrance, Modina tilted her head and a slight smile appeared. “I know you’ll be back.”
It was a surprising sentence, considering that they’d separated with Modina still convinced of their destiny, not matter how Arista had argued about the possibilities during a possible trial. But it was probably Arista’s insistance that had convinced Modina. Arista had always been stubborn.
She sat down next to Modina so they could keep their voices low. “I know about you and Amilia.” Arista took her hand. “I know you want to protect her.”
Modina’s expression didn’t change, but Arista had the impression she was satified.
“You’re good. Just as I thought.”
Arista blinked. “You had… heard about me? Before?”
“I didn’t ask Amilia to call you, if that’s what you think.” Modina looked at something invisible in front of you. “But I heard about you. Of course I did. The first woman to be register to the lawyer roll. When we enter in men’s territory, we have to be twice as good as they are, haven’t we?”
Arista felt a sting of guilt, because that discovery wasn’t her, and because she wasn’t a lawyer anymore. But she was also proud that a woman like Modina appreciated her.
“They kick me out from the roll.”
Modina tilted her head. “And you’re still here.”
“I made you a promise.” Arista tightened her grip on Modina’s hands. “My brother- he’s a lawyer too. I convinced him to help. We can do it. We can save you.”
Modina didn’t say a word, just looked at Arista with that penetrating gaze.
“I want to save you.”
“Thank you.” She turned her head again. “But things are somehow out of our control. I already lost my family. Amilia is the only thing I have left. And since what I can do is to protect Amilia from the storm that is arriving, I’ll do.”
“But what about the others?” Arista replied. “The company’s workers. They love you. What will happen to them if you give up? They’re your responsability too.”
For the first time since she’d met her, Modina seemed shocked by her. “The company…”
For the first time, she showed her age, and Arista realized she was even younger than her. She couldn’t face that alone.
“Promise me.” Arista placed both hands on Modina’s face, forced her to look straight in the eyes. “If I find a way to let Amilia out of it, you’ll take my brother as a lawyer. And then we’ll save you.”
Modina’s lips trembled. “But I did it. I killed him.”
Arista paled. Since the start, she hadn’t wandered by her idea that Modina had been framed somehow, that someone else had killed Ethereld and pinned the crime on her because she was a convenient scapegoat. She’d trusted Amilia’s pleas. Then Gerard’s words came back to her mind, the idea that, under some circumstances, Modina could have killed.
“Why?”
“Because he tried to kill me first.”
Surprisiling, Alric didn’t seem particulary upsed by the new information she’d brought him. As he promised, he’d collected as much documentation he could from the police and the court, and by his analysis he’d come to the conclusion that their only possible line during the trial should be self-defense.
“It won’t work unless we manage to find a reasonable motif for Ethelred,” she said. It was one of the reason she’d doubted of that version, but now she had Modina’s confirmation.
“Clearly he wanted her out of his way to grasp the power over the company.” Alric was impiling the papers over the desk.
“But killing her wouldn’t have granted that.” Alric had procured even a copy of their marriage agreement, so Arista grabbed it and shoved it in his face. “The company will return in the church’s responsability if Modina dies.”
“But it was the general manager nominated by the church first. Maybe he hoped in a similar role.” Alric moved the paper away. “It made sense, since Saldur was there. And Saldur was the first responsable of everything.”
Arista, who was examining the marriage agreement with a frown as it personally offended her, froze. “What do you mean?”
“He is one of the eye-witnesses, the one that discovered Ethereld’s body and Modina.” Alric passed her an enveloped that contained the copy of the declaration. “Ethereld had invited him for dinner the night of the murder. It seems they were old friends. It shouldn’t come to a surprise, you were the one telling me how Saldur favored the marriage between Ethereld and Modina.”
“Yes, but…” Arista red the first lines, where Maurice Saldur’s name was clearly written as the confirm identity of the witness. “Why he didn’t tell me when I talked with him? Sure, it was before our… collaboration, but he didn’t know that.”
Alric snorted. “Well, it’s unconventional to speak to witness for attorney. Perharps he didn’t want to embarass you.”
“That may be.” Saldur had been helpful, but he’d also tried to convice her, or better Alric, to give up the case. If he was convinced of what he’d seen that night, he could have tried to prevent their involvement in a mess. And maybe he didn’t want to embarass her if she didn’t know the case details.
Arista read fast his declaration. What he said matched well enough with Modina’s tale: he and the other witness were invited for dinner, something Modina wasn’t expected to attend. Amilia wasn’t in the palace, for once, as Ethereld had assigned her a work for the next morning. The only other attendants were Ethereld’s secretary Tibil, a waiter and the cook, but all three were dismissed after the meal.
The three men were chatting and smoking and dirnking in the private studiolo, when Ethereld decided to check on his wife. It was the moment he’d tried to kill her with a knive. Modina was awake enough to deflect the attack. The collusion broke the mirror and it was a shard of it that Modina grabbed. He didn’t expect her to react or to be so strong.
In the meantime, the two guests had heard the rumors and, worried, rushed to the room in time to see Modina stabbing her husband. It was the only part the tale diverged, because Modina was sure the two men arrived later, when Ethereld was already dead and she was over him, to be assured he wouldn’t have het up to attack her again.
Modina hadn’t release the shard, not until the police arrived and she’d trust herself with them. There was also a brief comment from Saldur about the fact that he was shocked because he’d know boht Modina and Ethereld for years and he would never thought of such an outcome.
Arista put down the paper and took one of the crime scene photograph: since it was such a high-profile case, the police called for it. The photo didn’t reveal much more than the tales: the broken mirror, the knife on the ground, Ethereld’s body.
“The police record is very detailed,” she commented, as he confronted it with the photos.
“Sir Breckton was in charge of the investigation, and he’s the best out there.” Alric took another envelope. “He’s also incorruptible, so we can be assured all he wrote down is true.”
But the police couldn’t confirm the dynamic except for the present of a fight: the procurator could easily claim Modina had been the first one to attack and Ethereld had tried to stop her without hurting her.
Arista took the envelope Alric gave her. “You also got the autopsy report?”
“I know the pathologist.”
“You know the pathologist female assistance, you mean.” Mauvin entered in the office without knoking: he still wore his riding clothes and he smelled of rain, mud and horse. He uncerimouniously threw himself on the free armchair next to Arista, still smiling.
Alric ignored the remark and Arista’s disappoving look. “Where are you been?”
Mauvin didn’t faltered. “Investigating, of course!”
Arista threw him an unimpressed glare. “So, what did you find?”
“Well, like I said, I went speaking to Amilia. Nice girl. A little bit too shy for me. However,” he added immediately at Arista rising eyebrow, “she confirmed her love affair with Modina. She told me this incredible cute story about being hired to take care of Modina when she barely talked. Despite being only a worker because Amilia’d been the only one able to get reaction out of her. She remained at her service wven when Modina got better and took control of her company, and you can image how it went from it.”
“We already know that.” Modina had been reserved, but she talked about Amilia with affection, about the fact that she had been trusted her when everyone else had considered her mental ill and a lost cause.
Mauvin smiled. “And do you know that Ethereld fired Amilia few days before the murder?”
Both siblings widened their eyes, and bent near when Mauvin took off a paper from his pocket. It was the official document, a paper signed by Ethereld and with the Novronian company seal, announcing Amilia that her service wouldn’t be required starting next month. The management of employees was Ethereld’s duty.
“Amilia received this only two days ago, but the signature data was antecedent,” Mauvin pointed out. “She didn’t expect that and she was devastated.”
“Probably it was prepared and ready to be send and Rudolf found it during his investigation.” Alric took the letter and examined it. “It is the motif he talked about. Ethereld fired Modina’s lover and she killed him for it.”
“Modina didn’t know about it, or she would have told me.” Saying those words, she realized how little they valued. They meant for her, but they had a jury to convince.
She took the second testimony, the one she hadn’t read yet. They could be mistaken about what they’d seen and besides, why Ethereld and Modina would have discussed about Amilia when he had guests? “Wait a moment…” He read the name of the witness one. Two. Three times. It didn’t change. “Luis Guy Seret is the second witness?”
“Do you know him?” Alric asked.
“If I know him?” Arista leaped up. “That cur is the one that denounced me and had me banned from the roll. I read his denouce: women are too fragile, too emotional and it would be a poor expression seeing them arguing and yelling in a court when their body weren’t made for it. That ibecile, mysognist, old fashion…” She threw her hands in the air, pacing the room as a lion in a cage.
Alric and Mauvin shared a look but they remained in silent, waiting for the storm to pass.
Arista charged her brother. “He’s just a poor, pathetic little man that hated women and the idea they are better than him. He probably came with his little dick at the idea of condaming this wonderful, competent and successful business woman that threated his fragile masculinity.”
“God, Arista, the image!” Alric cried. Mauvin was trying – and failing – not to laugh.
“That’s it!” She crushed the paper in her hand. “We’ll advocate during the trial that he hates women and he will say anithing to justify his vision of the world. The jury shouldn’t believe any word from his mouth because of it. Modina did defend herself and he takes his chance to punish her.”
“That may be, but it won’t be our defense.”
Arista frowned. “Why not?”
“Because, dear sister, most people think like Luis Guy. Why do you think he threw you out. Because most people think women don’t belong in court. Or as company owner.” Alric shook his head. “No, we should appeal them from a different angle. Ethereld was her husband. Her protector. Instead, he fired the most important person to her and then tried to kill her. Modina did what she needed to survive despite the betrayal of a man who should have protect her. This will be our defence.”
“But…”
“No but. I’m the lawyer here.”
Arista sat down on the chair. It was a mistake, she knew it. The world was full of Luis Guy, maybe, but there were also people like Arcadious, who had believed in her and taught her. And people like Amilia or Modina, who needed to be seen.
Reclutanty, she said, “We will have no defense if we can’t avoid Rudolf to use Amilia and Modina’s relationship in court. And what Mauvin discovered isn’t helping.”
Mauvin pouted. “You have so little faith in me?”
“Well, you were the one bringing us the proof that Modina could have been irritated with her husband.”
“And I also bring you the hypotesis it could be fake.” Mauvin smiled at their bewilderment. “That’s why I’m late. I stopped by in my way back here to ask for an expert examination.”
Alric raised an eyebrow. “Myron?”
“Yep.”
“Myron Lanaklin? The famous translator?” Arista inquired.
“The very one. He’s the brother of a friend of mine. The maximun expert of miniature. A nice guy. Funny, too. I should-”
“And?” Alric pressed.
Mauvin took off another paper. “With Amilia, we do wonder if someone could have fabricated a proof to frame Modina. Amilia is still convinced she didn’t kill her husband. So I asked her for another paper signed by Ethereld for a confrontation.”
Alric narrowed his eyes. “The two signature seem alike to me.”
“Too much alike, in Myron’s opinion.” Mauvin patted the letter ‘l’ on the fire letter. “See this? It’s a little bit thinnier and longer than the first one, like someone was trying to force himself during a copy. It’s very common with left-handed, and Ethereld was not.”
“It’s not much.”
“The writing is also different.” Arista pointed at the two papers. “The signatures are Ethereld’s but not the test.”
“That’s another point.” Mauvin nodded at her appreciative. “Usually, this kind of documents are written by assistant or segretary and then only signed. This one,” he gestured at the other document, “was written for sure by Tibil, Ethereld’s segretary. Someone else wrote this, and it was not Ethereld.”
“It’s something.” Alric rubbed his beard. “We can ask this Tibil if he remembers writing or being order to write these letter, and also Breckton’s permission to a search in the palace. If we find who wrote the fire letter, we may discover when it was written and then bring our conclusion to Rudolf.”
“Do you think he’ll back off so easily?” Arista asked. “He’s stubborn.”
“Yeah, but he’s more scared to be mock in public. He won’t like the idea to bring a fake proof in court and being unmasked in front of everyone.” Alric collected Mauvin’s proofs and put them in a separated envelope. “But first thing first, tomorrow we’ll speak with Modina. Without her authorization, we can’t investigate. Breckton isn’t like everyone else, he’ll check if we have all the correct papers.”
Arista nodded, but with the nagging feeling she’d missed something fundamental. -
.
At the wall of Chastillon’s room, was hung a map of the world. Vask and Patran were less considered, while great attention was on the land of Vere and Akielos, whose names were written in veretian conjugation. Damen cringed at the familiar names in that style, remembering how the entire war had born over his father’s request of having Delpha back in his possession. Apparently, the veretians wanted more.
When the door opened, he snapped his head from the map: Laurent, tight clothes and composed as if they didn’t come from a long journey of travel, entered his chamber, owing it with his presence. He reserved a mildly interested look at what Damen was doing.
“It used to be one kingdom, once,” he said, as he took his seat in the armchair and gestured at Damen to place himself in front of him. On the table in the middle was still placed the remaining of Damen’s meal. If Laurent had eaten, he had done it separately.
Damen expected Laurent’s sentence to be only a warning about Vere’s ambition towards Akielos. Instead, Laurent continued, “It’s been said that the people of the Artesian Empire were blessed by gods. They have powers beyond our comprehension, which allow them to build without effort, travel between walls and heal even the deadly wounds with only their minds.”
His eyes hadn’t left Damen once as he sat down. “Their knowledge is mostly lost these days, but something remained, or so it is said, in the blood of Vere’s royal family.” Laurent took a glass of water and observed it as it was of his mostly interest. “We call it the Skill.”
The Skill. Damen repeated the word in his mind, trying to get a hold of it. Such a nice denomination for something so twisted as mind-control.
“We have similar legends in Akielos,” he said instead. “They said the Artemisian empire coexisted with Dragons, which they could communicate with and share a special bond. When Dragons went extinct, the Artemisian empire fell, but the ability to communicate with nature remained in some people.” His mother’s lineage, the one that created Akielos.
“I’m not surprised that a barbaric country like you took only the most basic of power,” Laurent said.
“And yet it was this barbaric power that resist yours,” Damen bit back. “Probably because it isn’t tainted by a desire to overpower those that cannot defend themselves.”
If the collaboration wasn’t starting in the best way, Damen didn’t care. He had been clear that his desire to help Laurent sprout from the necessity of defending Akielos from the Regent’s plot. He had no love for Laurent, nor he’d forgotten how much Laurent had hurt him. How much was still hurting him, since the barrier that separated him from his Wit partner still stand.
But he wouldn’t tell Laurent that, not after his talk about the Wit being stronger than the Skill.
If Laurent had been moved by Damen’s speech, he didn’t show it.
“I can image that your lack of imagination brings you to believe the Skill can be used only in one way,” he said, calmly. “And I won’t lie, it has its benefits. But it is much more than that.”
“Such as?”
“Pressing on preexistent emotion, you can increase it beneficially. Even better, you can let people restrained from their fear and worries, and that will allow them to reach their full potential.”
It was what Auguste had done, Damen realized. He didn’t force Akielons soldiers to escape, or to kill each other, but he’d increased his own men’s abilities in order to succeed.
“Making someone believe that they could do a thing and they may just be able to despite all the odds,” Laurent continued. “Most of the Skill had been lost for centuries, but just imagine how we can do with that. If we can convince someone that he would live instead of die, so the body would be convinced to repay itself.”
There was a strange glint on Laurent’s face, one Damen had never seen before, which was both surprising and scaring. It was the first time Laurent was truly interested in something, not as a means to reach his gain, but as actual, genuine interest.
Laurent noticed it too, noticed that he was letting a piece of him out, so he said, “Of course, I don’t feel guilty to use the Skill in the conventional method. If someone attacks me, I will order him to stop.”
Take the knife
Damen had noticed it, the cutlery the attendants had carelessly left in his tray. He had no intention to use it, for the moment, and he hated that Laurent was ordering him to only test him. In a swift movement, he grabbed it by the hilt and then stabbed the table. The blade swung back and forth by the strength of the hit.
“Don’t,” he said dangerously. “I’ve already proved to you that I can repel your order. Next time you order me a knife in my hand, you wouldn’t like to be able to stop what would come next.”
Laurent nodded, as if he expected it. “In the future, there will be a time when you’ll take that knife willingly to use it. I expect it and I assure you I will use any means to stop you. But now that you clarify your position, I expect you to behave.”
Damen nodded, because what else could he do? What Laurent couldn’t gain with the Skill, he got with his brain and his clever plan, just like he’d done with Torveld.
“My uncle can’t control an entire army. He isn’t as good, and he hasn’t been trained,” Laurent continued, as the entire conversation about the knife and their inevitable fated future confrontation hadn’t happened. “But neither I was. It is entirely possible he used the Skill to impose some orders on some soldiers, to carry out at the most beneficial moments for him and the worse for us. I’m not sure I would be strong enough to counterattack it.”
The admission of weakness was made in an impersonal tone. But Laurent was practical, so he couldn’t afford to overestimate himself to create a valuable plan.
“I guess Govart was one of them.”
Laurent rose his eyebrow. “My uncle didn’t need the Skill to have Govart obeying him. It’s far more probable he hit one of my guards. His ones are already loyal.”
“What can I do?”
“The Skill can’t do what the Wit does. You proved that you can feel when we use the Skill and counterattack it. I want you to use the Wit and search for any sign of my uncle’s tampering. Open your mind to any interference you see and report them to me.” Then, he gestured at the maps on the table. “In the meantime, you said you know the area.”
Returning to the army after months of captivity was refreshing for Damen, but it also made Leone’s absence aching more. He was used to his comments, his remarks, his help. It was a part of his soul that he couldn’t access anymore. The absence was even more dominant when Damen, following Laurent’s orders, opened his spirit searching for the Regent’s tampers.
Despite it, Damen was still competent enough. Laurent seemed to consider his pieces of advice. Gaining the men’s trust was a little bit complicated and Govart’s behavior didn’t help. It was one of the first things Damen said to Laurent: his men and his uncle’s men fought and Govart didn’t do anything to prevent it. Laurent had to intervene before the situation precipitated.
“Govart follows orders. Just not mine.” It was Laurent’s comment, but in any case, he seemed convinced enough of the necessity of some sort of intervention on his part.
“That’s all?”
“No. There’s another thing.”
“Go on, then.”
Damen sat down in front of him, but he didn’t speak. They weren’t any more in the private quartier in Chastillion, men were all around the tent. Instead, he reached for Laurent’s mind. Laurent let him.
I don’t know if the Wit allows me to see orders made with the Skill. If any men received it, they may consider it a part of themselves. I saw the order because I have the Wit
In his mind, the Regent’s order had been like a stone felling in a lake. But others might consider it no more than salt, melting in their soul.
Have you tried on Huet?
Damen looked at Laurent, surprised.
Yes. As you said, I started with your own men
You noticed something?
No
Then you probably can’t. I used the Skill to order him to do something stupid but harmless
Now Damen was annoyed.
You could have warned me
It would defy the entire purpose of proving your Wit, don’t you think?
As much as he hated it, Damen couldn’t deny that it had been an effective way to prove what the Wit could do compared to the Skill. It was also worrisome, because despite their agreement Damen didn’t trust Laurent to remain coherent to it, if Damen didn’t prove himself useful.
But I noticed something
Laurent raised an eyebrow.
Aimeric
What about him?
He has a barrier inside himself, just like the one you put on me. I think it’s the Regent. I don’t think he has the Wit, so he definitely didn’t notice it and it shouldn’t be a barrier to cut off a Wit partner
Laurent’s expression remained impassible. Damen didn’t expect him to be regretful of Leone’s whereabouts, but the unfairness still hurt. Laurent kept his spirit steady, no one emotion left free.
What the barrier is blocking?
I don’t know. I hypothesize that it’s preventing Aimeric to reach some of his memories. I can’t grasp it, so he definitely can’t either. Maybe your uncle gave an order and hid it behind a wall until the time come
Laurent pondered on the situation.
Interesting
Then, he said, “Aimeric is Guion’s third son. You know Guion? It was the Ambassador in Akielos. He’s also Fortaine’s lord.”
Damen remembered him. “And his son is part of your guard?”
“It seemed so convenient, don’t you think? Putting as mole the son of one of my uncle’s trusted men. It’s exactly the person to look more.”
But then, in his mind, he said, keep searching, I’ll have Jord keep an eye on Aimeric
Then Laurent put up another map for Damen to illustrate. It was going to be another long night.
But Damen didn’t mind: talking with Laurent made Leone’s absence more bearable. For now, it was an agreement that worked.
They had their first disagreement the day after Govart’s demise. Since Laurent had stated that Damen could argue with him as long as they did it in private, Damen did just that. Despite the tiredness of the daily drills, he felt enough energy to sit down with Laurent and protest.
“You can’t do that.”
“Do what?”
Laurent’s ignorance sounded false. Laurent hadn’t protected himself with his barrier during the day, and Damen suspect he’d done that to test Damen too. Damen had felt more and more Laurent’s pressure over the men, his orders during the thrill.
Damen just looked at him. “They won’t grow into decent soldiers if you cheat. They need to be able to do things on their own, not being ordered to.”
You complained that I didn’t resolve things with Govart with the Skill Laurent’s eyes were on Damen’s face, intently. “Why are you complaining now?”
Damen had been surprised to see Laurent straightforwardly dealing with Govart, and not only because it’d revealed Laurent’s ability with the blade. Damen had been sure it would be something more subtle, a kind of order given with the Skill that would have brought Govart’s demise. Instead, it had been a mixture of Laurent’s scheming mind and his own capability.
“I didn’t actually complain about it.” Damen’s reservation had been more inclined to Govart’s rage at being humiliated, and the way Laurent had conned it. “But that’s the point. You said you wanted the men to respect you, and they now respected your strength after the show-off with Govart. You have traits that’ll make them love you, but if you just order them, they won’t learn. And they won’t appreciate you and they’ll move as soon as someone else will order them something else.”
“I don’t have the time!” Laurent’s rage was there, but controlled, hid behind a wall. “I earn two weeks for them. They’re not enough. Not for them, and not for me.”
Damen understood that, but his mind refused to consider forcing someone against his will, without even consenting to it, a suitable way to train an army.
Besides, don’t tell me you haven’t ever used the Wit to order animals
Actually, yes. I asked them to aid me
Laurent wasn’t unreasonable. Unreadable, most of the time, but it was guided by his brain so Damen could talk him into consideration.
“During the battle of Marlas…” Laurent's rigid posture said to Damen that he had to walk really, really carefully in the next word. “Veretian were pushed to their best. But they weren’t orders, not entirely. It was something more… subtle.” He eyed Laurent. “Like you did with Torlveld.”
Laurent held his breath. “Auguste was a natural. He was strong with it. I haven’t been trained, and I’m not… as good. I can’t do that with so many men, and they still need to feel something for me to intervene.”
“If you don’t try, you’ll never know.” Damen didn’t say that Laurent had been strong enough to create a barrier impossible to break. It hadn’t been an easy feat. “You won’t be able to order men in battle as you do during drills in any case.”
Laurent didn’t confirm or negate it. But the next day, during training, Damen didn’t perceive any orders from him. But he felt something: it was only a faint sensation, like a brush of finger from a lover. In Damen’s opinion, it was still too controlled, too impersonal, but it was similar to Auguste’s feeling.
Men around Damen were tired, but then calm fell upon them, relaxing them, convincing them that they were able to do more.
Men around Damen were attracted to Laurent, and now that attraction was pushed a little, turned into admiration, and comprehension.
Slowly, Damen saw the king Laurent could be, with his abilities and his Skill, and it was, begrudging, a wonderful vision. And a completely spontaneous one: Laurent hadn’t touched him with his mind.
“Let me,” Damen said, as he and Laurent observed the lonely horse, the very same that had left days before with the messenger.
Slowly, he opened his spirit as he approached the horse. He accepted Damen’s touch with much grace; since the beginning, Damen had tried to befriend the animals in the camp, a habit of his. One could never be sure when and if they would need bizarre help. So the horse recognized him.
Damen caressed his neck and asked mental questions at the same time. Horses were simple creatures, but smarter than most. Even if they couldn’t grasp the complexity of the human world, they’re used to it enough to be able to describe events in detail and understood even more precise questions.
When Damen returned to Laurent’s side, he nodded. “They killed your messenger. I don’t doubt it was the Regent’s doing, but the soldiers didn’t wear any crest. The horse’s return was probably a warning: they wanted you to know that your message didn’t go through.”
Laurent’s eyes were still on the horse and he didn’t say anything, so Damen followed his own line of thoughts about the reason. In his opinion, it would be more beneficial to hide it, making Laurent believe that his message had reached the target and twisting to understand why no answer would arrive next. Unless… He looked at Laurent’s intent expression and, with his spirit still open, he could perceive the idea forming below the golden hair.
“They want to separate you from your men. You can’t let them.”
Laurent looked at him but, surprisingly didn’t have a remark and didn’t shut Damen out of his mind. “Do you speak will all animals?”
“Technically, but not all of them answer.” Damen was surprised by the question and wondered if Laurent was trying to find a way to use the Wit more than having Damen as his watchdog for the Regent’s plot. “Insects are too simple-minded so it’s hard to make them listen. And birds are pricky.”
“And reptiles?” Laurent asked: his tiny smirk gave Damen the impression that he’d been able to read Damen’s not-so-kind opinion of him. “Don’t answer, I already know.”
“I think we’re safe.”
Damen was about to open his spirit to control where the guards following them were moving away from the tavern, when Laurent grabbed his hands. Damen halted: Laurent didn’t wear Nicaise’s earrings anymore, but it had been a strange night. A strange day. Laurent seemed kinder, more approachable than usual. More human – and Damen’s body reacted accordingly.
“I want to try something,” Laurent said. Can you use the Wit to pinpoint the soldiers?
Yes
He knew better than to ask for an explanation. Damen opened his spirit, let it wander until he identified the soldiers: they were four, and their eagerness made them bright for Damen to separate from the rest. They were like hounds during hunting season.
Suddenly, an image formed in his mind. It was the messenger Laurent had met, walking in the street of Nesson. It looked a lot similar to the one that was brought from the brothel to the tavern; then the messenger walked again, turned to the street of the brothel, passed the door and then again. But he
“I saw him!” One of the guards yelled. “He went that way!”
Damen couldn’t see them, but he perceived them. He perceived that they were running around like sheep guided by the guard dog.
You planted a fake vision in their mind
I wasn’t sure I could
It won’t work, they’re splitting up. Two of them are coming back
Wait
Another memory, this time of Laurent and Damen going in another direction. The two guards followed that imaginary idea. From the tavern’s roof, they could see the men moving from one street and another without noticing they were running in a circle, trapped in their mind. Damen didn’t know if being amazed or disgusted by it. It was dishonorable. But also bloodless.
Will they run in a circle until they die?
My Skill will fade out sooner or later
But he didn’t look so sure – everything Laurent was doing was more an experiment, and it was spurred from Damen’s presence.
“Maybe we should put them to more use.”
Laurent eyed him. “Interrogate them? We know they’re my uncle’s.”
“But they may know something else about his plan.”
Damen wondered if the idea grew out of his necessity to keep Laurent safe or because he despised seeing the men like that. Laurent nodded: he, too, understood his doubts.
“You won’t like my interrogation.”
It was said in a nice tone, as if Laurent hated the Skill to be perceived as a twisted thing, but he didn’t have any chance but to use it like that.
Do you intend to penetrate their minds?
“Penetrate?” You start to talk like a veretian. Then, Yes, if my uncle didn’t block them
Damen would have beaten them until they wouldn’t have talked. Begrudging, he admitted he was starting to admire the Skill and the advantage it gave.
“I do think it’ll be better than mine.”
Despite understanding Laurent’s decision to wait for the revolt, Damen was unease. He couldn’t sleep, concerned that the revolt would break out before they could intervene. If Laurent was wrong, the Prince’s Guard might be able to defeat the insurgent alone, but it would leave their army crippled and weakened to face the subsequent ambush the Regent had prepared against them.
His spirit wandered on the sleeping camp, so he noticed immediately when something was awry, the eagerness of some men, the firing up of their soul, like dogs in heat. The kind that couldn’t be stopped. He rushed to wake Laurent.
They didn’t talk: their soul was somehow connected after sharing their thought, and even in the dark Laurent understood. He was ready immediately and followed Damen outside the tent.
It was barely sunrise and the camp was still mid-asleep. No doubt the rebels wanted to take most of the others by surprise, but it didn’t work quite well because most of the Regent’s men had no intention to participate against the prince. It wouldn’t have been like that a few days before.
“What’s going on?” Laurent asked, sauntering towards his soldiers.
His attitude was calm, focused; with the sun glinting at his shoulder, his golden hair shone and his entire figure, already dressed with the armor, looked ethereal. Like a king, Damen thought to himself.
The thought appeared in his mind before perceiving Laurent’s tug. It wasn’t directed at him, but he felt it anyway. His Skill swirled around the men, pushing their devotion, their pride of being prince’s soldiers. The ones that opposed it, he pressed more on the guilt button. Even if they didn’t backward from their decision, they felt ashamed about betraying the prince.
It was glorious, Damen thought. Laurent was very different from Auguste, but the power Damen perceived was the same.
The battle that broke out was swift and brutal and didn’t end well for the rebels.
“Aimeric was involved too,” Orlant argued. “I saw the little snake in their company. He revved people up. Just look at Lazar.” He turned to Jord. “You were the one ordering me to keep an eye on him. You suspected him too.”
Jord tilted his head to Laurent, who sat down impassibly at his desk, inside his tent. “I did. With me, though, he hadn’t shown anything.”
“Of course! He’s sweeting on you and at the same time he speaks poison to the likes of him.” Orlant turned to Huet for support.
Damen was surprised the three soldiers had gut enough to discuss so freely in Laurent’s presence, and more so that Laurent let them. But his Wit didn’t perceive anything: the men were still wrapped in their feelings to the point Laurent didn’t need to push on their feelings anymore. They were proud men, even more proud now that they had actually fought for their prince, and that was the result. But the moment Laurent would speak, they would accept any of their decision.
That was more or less the birth of Laurent’s pack.
Besides, the real conversation took place in Laurent’s mind.
Do you think we can fall into my uncle’s trap
Yes. You saw your pack – your men. You’re seeing them right now. They’re yours. Gave them a battle, a real one, and they will be ready for the border
Damen missed Leone in his mind, but the lingering feeling of the lion remained in his mind. A battle to defend their pride was exactly what the men needed. In his wild thoughts, Damen would never imagine seeing veretians as a lion pack, and yet there he was, pushing for them to defend their territory.
I’m not sure I can do the same thing I did for the revolt. We’ll probably need to split, and I will be moving. My Skill… hasn’t been proven so much
I can help you, as I did at Nesson. Use the Wit to direct you
He’d done it before, with animals. Guided by Laurent, he guessed it wouldn’t be impossible to do the same with people. It would be strange, to take Leone’s role and let Laurent in charge.
That… will be useful
Then Laurent shifted his position, barely, and that was enough for the men to stop. “Aimeric is not to be touched, for now,” he said. “The traitors were defeated, and that’s enough for now. Let him think we don’t know about his treason and let's see his next move.”
The three men nodded. When Orland and Huet left, and Jord was the only one who remained, Laurent said, “Can we focus now on the real battle that awaits us?”
During the revolt, Laurent hadn’t pulled Damen’s mind. It wasn’t necessary and, maybe, Laurent didn’t trust himself or Damen enough to risk it.
During the battle, Laurent didn’t have a such reservation. Damen felt clearly the pressure of Laurent on his entire soul, just like over the men around him, and they were galvanized to fight more, better, braver. Damen didn’t perceive it as an intrusion, but as a helping hand. He was a good – a greater warrior, and being reminded of it just stimulate him. He embraced the feeling like it was his own.
Only when the battle ended in a victory and Damen had the time to breathe, to think, he realized what that feeling really meant. It was like with Leone.
Damen and his Wit partner hadn’t participated in war, Marlas was long forgotten when Damen became friends with the lion. However, they had faced fights together, in hunts or during contests. Leone had been at his side and his mind at the same time, lending Damen his animal features. Damen could be stronger, faster, and more precise thanks to their connection. He didn’t just feel like a lion, he was a lion.
Laurent’s connection worked similarly, improving Damen’s natural talent to its maximum extent. For the first time since Leone’s disappearance, Damen hadn’t found his absence so heart wrecked. The guild he felt was temperate by the happiness Laurent was spreading around, the men cheering his name.
So the Wit and the Skill weren’t so different after all.
It was one kingdom once.
Laurent appeared fine after the battle. Like a consummate warrior, he gave orders around, his armor still shining and spattered with blood. He didn’t rest until he was sure the camp was arranged in the most efficient and tidy manners, that the wounded and the dead, very few in both cases, were taken care of. Damen did his best to help, feeling that something was off. Laurent’s Skill, so pushed to the outside, was now swirling inside Laurent, as he was pushing himself in the same manner he did with men not long before.
Only once they were safe in the tent, Laurent let himself go. Damen wasn’t sure if it was deliberate or he just reached his limit, but he fell unceremoniously on his knees, his Skill completely disappeared and he grabbed his head with both hands.
Damen was immediately at his side. “Laurent, are you…?”
“What do you think?” Laurent snarled. “Go call Paschal.”
Not even when he was drugged Laurent had lost so much control. When Damen reached for him with his Wit, he felt the head-splitting pain that was radiating from his mind. It wasn’t the normal tiredness of the battle, but something that came from the Skill itself.
Damen rushed to Paschal. When he returned to the tent, Laurent had somehow managed to move and now sat sloppily on his chair, sweating, cheek red. But he wasn’t feverish, not yet. He glared at Paschal, who didn’t look at all surprised or concerned.
“You know what you need.”
“No, I… There needs to be another way. I can’t… Just give me a sleeping potion.”
Paschal didn’t falter. “It won’t work. You pushed yourself too much, I told you it would happen.” Then, kinder, “a dose won’t do much damage. But if you resist, you won’t be able to function anymore.”
“Fine, then.” It was a growl, the defeat of a wounded lion. Paschal nodded and left, so Laurent reserved his attention and rage at Damen, “Well? Attend me.”
Damen had learned enough than ask if Laurent was in such a foul mood. But he reached for him with the Wit, in the same way it would do with a scared animal, and Laurent let him. When Damen had finished helping him undress, Paschal returned with a cup with a green and warm liquid, which Laurent drank slowly, each sip a stab.
“I gave you the minimum dose,” Paschal said, “Tomorrow morning you will be better.”
“No, I won’t,” Laurent replied, his word harsh. “Not the way I should.”
Damen found out the truth behind Laurent’s words the next morning, when Laurent woke up. Damen hadn’t noticed it, at first, which was strange because he had his spirit roaming free. Then, he focused specifically on Laurent’s mind and he found it blank, as if no one was ever there.
Laurent, he tried, with no reaction at all.
Then Laurent looked at him, seeing the baffled expression on Damen’s face and scoffed. “Ephedra.”
It should have been an explanation, but Damen didn’t understand. “It was the medicine Paschal gave you yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“But-”
“Ephedra is technically a calming herb, but it has the unexpected side effect to block the Skill entirely.”
“Entirely?” Damen repeated, feeling stupid. He knew drugs could affect the Wit, because it affected the brain: when Laurent’d given him chalis, his access to Leone’s consciousness had been foggy during his fight with Govart. But he’d never lose hold of it.
“Did I stutter?” Laurent replied. He hadn’t stood up from his bed yet and he’d clearly be in bad humor.
“But it will come back?”
“Maybe.” Laurent looked about to puke. His eyes were on Damen, as he was battling inside himself if spoke again. Then, he said, “A not trained Skill user could burn himself if they’re not careful, especially if their Skill is particularly strong.”
Damen thought about it, remembering that, in his young years, he had the same problem, and when he used too much the Wit, the result was a weekly headache.
“Not many papers survived about the Skill, and my uncle was very careful to hide what it was beneficial to him. He always said that ephedra is useful to keep the side-effect of the Skill under control, but it isn’t true. It blocks it. Prolonged use of it may erase the Skill completely.” Laurent’s face was like stone. “After Marlas, he’d been given ephedra to me every evening.”
“But you haven’t-” Damen stopped. He re-thought better at his assessment. “You mean your Skill was even stronger in the past?”
“Possibly. My father never saw the utility to train me, so it was wild when I was younger.” Finally, Laurent stood up. “When I started to finally use the Skill consciously, most damages had already been done. And I don’t know how much more will take for the ephedra to take my Skill permanently.” He gritted his teeth. “I shouldn’t have exploited the Skill so much. At that point, there was no other choice.”
Laurent let his cold aspect fall and Damen could see his desperation, without having any need to read in his mind. He was only half because of the Skill absence. The other half was because of Damen’s presence: he wasn’t supposed to see his weakness.
“Here. I gave you the means to defeat me.”
“If years of ephedra hadn’t prevented you to use the Skill to improve an entire army, I doubt that a cup now will stop you for long,” Damen said, sincerely.
He didn’t feel in any way to taunt Laurent; he knew what he meant by being cut off from a power you lived with, he felt that absence every day since Leone had been stolen from him. And Laurent had shared a personal story with him, which Damen wanted to respect.
Laurent’s expression didn’t improve. “But it could stop me long enough. I need it if we want a chance to defeat my uncle.”
“Are you sure?” Damen smiled. “Then you should peek outside.”
The men, without any input, had started early working on their drill. They were Laurent’s pack thought and thought now, with or without the Skill.
Laurent recovered the use of the Skill in time for their arrival at Ravenel, which was providential.
Despite the fatigue that had brought him to use the ephedra, he immediately put the Skill back to work. Damen was careful to keep him under control, to avoid the burning up he felt a little bit guilty of since he drowned in that power during the battle too, but not as much for Laurent to become angry at his intervention.
Laurent’s ability and the Skill navigated them during the meeting with Touars, Guion and the others and helped the army during their arrival at the destruction of Breteau. Damen was the most affected by it, since it was Akielons’ fault, and he admitted Laurent’s soothing touches were more than welcoming. Laurent knew that there was the Regent’s hand behind all this and Damen appreciated that he tried to temperate any hate towards Akielos.
But there was a limit to the Skill’s success. “We need to go. Finding the actual response of this attack.”
Damen observed him. “Have you done with Aimeric?” It didn’t want to be so aggressive, but Laurent didn’t seem to mind much.
I tried to break my uncle’s barrier, but to no avail.
Do you think your uncle hid his plan behind it?
No, because otherwise, Aimeric wouldn’t know either Laurent’s expression darkened. I suspect it was something he doesn’t want me to know. But I suspect what is it, and it’s nothing I can do about it
That’s all you did?
“No.” Laurent didn’t elaborate, but didn’t raise his barrier either. Damen, however, didn’t press.
Saying it wasn’t tempted by the Akielon army would have been a lie. No, all of Damen’s body tremble with excitement, his part animal was all instinct to run to his pack. But then he looked at Laurent and remembered Leone’s warning about a wayward, alone lion, which was Laurent at this moment.
Damen didn’t have in himself the gut to abandon him.
“Can you do again what you did in Nesson?”
Laurent’s eyes moved just a little in surprise. He didn’t expect Damen to stay, or he didn’t expect Damen to want the use of the Skill? But then he looked at the army. “Not the entire army.”
“And the scouts?” Damen asked. “The army won’t come here entirely, but they will send people to check there aren’t traps or hidden enemies.”
“If you can individuate them with the Wit, I think so.”
They moved from such a visible position, hiding in a providential nearer cave. Damen took Laurent’s hands and opened his spirit, letting Laurent surf on it. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed Laurent’s touch on him. After losing Leone, he felt, even more, the absence of the other. Laurent wasn’t Leone, of course. He wasn’t his long-life partner, he was an enemy, a begrudging alley, but… he was also the only human being Damen had even shared his Wit with.
It created a tie Damen couldn’t negate.
Four scouts were around, and Laurent ordered them not to see them. To just go, because there was nothing to see. The scouts passed nearby, fast, without sparing a second glance at the surrounding.
“I think it’s clear,” Damen said.
He took off his hand from Laurent’s a little bit faster, and closed their connection. He’d become better at hiding his true self despite Laurent’s presence in his mind, but he couldn’t risk it. Laurent was becoming fast a too much important part of him.
He felt the absence inevitably, so he closed his barrier not to be a forced to face it.
That was the reason he missed the fifth scout until it was too late to use the Wit.
“In my culture, it is customary to reward for good service. There is something you want?”
“You know what I want.”
“I am not going to release you. Ask for something short of that.”
But Damen wasn’t thinking about his freedom. Of course he wanted it, but he was confident he would obtain it once the situation with the Regent would be enough resolved. He wasn’t going to correct Laurent, though.
“Remove the barrier?” he said then. “The one you put between me and my lion?”
Laurent looked at him, surprised. He didn’t ask which barrier, they were both aware of it. But then, he appeared regretful.
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t plan for it.” Laurent looked at the fire. “You know I’m not enough trained with the Skill. When you pried my memory, I only think of a way to shut it out. I asked for it and my Skill reacted. That’s all. I didn’t notice its presence until you pointed it out.”
“You always acted as if you were fully aware of it.”
Laurent smirked, but it was a sad expression. “Can’t have my enemy see my weakness. Better he believes I know.”
And now he was admitting it. Because he didn’t consider Damen an enemy anymore? Damen didn’t know how to take the confession, as the sadness fell through him. There was the distinct possibility that he could never recover his relationship with Leone and that was crushing him.
“I tried to destroy Aimeric’s barrier, but with no avail,” Laurent went on.
“It is possible it’s because Aimeric’s is your uncle’s.”
Laurent nodded. Without advice, he took Damen’s face in his hands and concentrated. The pull of his mind was immediately recognizable as he slammed, useless, against the barrier. It stood steady, despite Laurent’s efforts.
“If I’d been trained properly…” The regret was so sincere in Laurent’s voice that Damen couldn’t fathom him for it.
That’s why he immediately moved the attention away. “There is something else I want. Don’t try to use me against my own people.”
He would take Leone back, sooner or later. But he has other members of his pack to protect. Laurent shouldn’t be a part of it but, somehow, he’d become one.
Their captor’s horses were chatty. Damen used the Wit to talk with them during their transport. They seemed to like their owners just enough because animals didn’t have the same morality as humans, but Damen was confident enough that they didn’t have to restrain to talk with him.
Did they attack a village? Yes, probably, we travel far south, unusual
Where are we going? Up the mountain, their camp.
How many men? Fifty, all male
Damen had expected Laurent to use the Skill to untangle them from their situation, but fifty men seemed too many for him too. He hadn’t used it when they were captured when Damen had counted eight, but Laurent’s mind worked differently from Damen’s. They were looking for those men, so perhaps Laurent was waiting for something to happen, or for someone to meet.
It was only when Laurent didn’t stop the punch in his face that Damen understood: Laurent was too tired to use the Skill.
He should have understood it before. Laurent had utilized the Skill all day, first to ward off the Akielon soldiers and then to try to free Damen from his barrier. And, before that, he’d used it for days after their arrival at Ravenel. And since he refused the ephedra, there was nothing to stop him from overextending himself.
The moment Damen opened his mind, he perceived the split-brain headache Laurent had, to the point that he admired how the man could still stand and appear perfectly healthy.
Unfortunately, that meant that they couldn’t expect any mind control to entangle them from his mess. Damen, his arms still tied behind his back, couldn’t counterattack. Besides, they were too many for a full battle. With the Wit, he reached for the horses and the other animals around. If he could convince them to help Laurent and him… They just needed a diversion, something to get free and escape. The men took their horses, so they were ready to help them, but alone they weren’t enough and Damen couldn’t risk losing his only means of escape.
But then, the boss of the bandit touched Laurent. In a manner that didn’t hide anything of his interest and what he would do. Damen lost completely his hold on the animals, too focused on the current danger, too angry that someone had dared to touch Laurent.
Dare to touch his-
A roar pierced the silence and Damen, for a second, was sure it was only in his mind, those moments of his life shared with Leone that had allowed him to become a lion himself, before he remembered that his connection with Leone had been severed.
But the roar was real and a second later a lion jumped out of the brush, jumping over the boss and tearing him away from Laurent. Laurent fell on the ground, eyes wide as the lion pin the man on the ground with his pawn and chewed his throat until he stopped moving. When he turned his mared head, fangs and mouth bloodied, the other men, despite their weapons, retreated a little.
Damen took advantage of the situation and smashed his body to the nearest opponent, then used the sword to free himself from the restraint. He grabbed it and took a still-shocked Laurent to his feet to cut his ropes too.
Laurent was easy to recover once free and, when finally, the men seemed ready to fight despite their boss’ death, he was ready, a stolen sword in his hands.
They were outnumbered, despite the lion’s presence, but before a full battle broke out, the camp was invaded by vaskian women, led by Halvik. Only at that moment, Damen realized the extent of Laurent’s plan to defy the Regent’s move.
But there wasn’t time to think about it now, not with a fight in front of them. He and Laurent fought well together, protecting each other’s backs. But it was strange, for Damen, seeing Leone – of course it was him, Damen would recognize him even without their bond – fight with them without being able to perceive him.
Once, during a battle against bandits, people had told tales about Damen turning into a lion. They had been dismissed by his father as an illusion created by Leone’s presence, but Damen knew differently: his bond with Leone was so strong he had become a lion too.
Now, that bond was blocked and Leone was just like any other comrade. It was painful, but Damen would take it over not having his partner at his side anymore.
When his last opponent fell, Damen conceded himself the privilege to look at Leone. It was a blank state, as he wasn’t even there, unable to reach him with the Wit. But Leone was looking at him, recognizing him, and words in his mind didn’t need to show the happiness of their encounter.
“It was real… I didn’t think…”
Laurent’s voice was stunned, almost childish. He fell on his knee, sword lost, right before Leone. Damen swallowed, unable to reach Leone, to warn him not to arm Laurent. The last memory of Laurent and Damen’s relationship in Leone’s memory was the flogging before Laurent had separated them. Damen wouldn’t be surprised if Leone would tear Laurent’s throat open as he did with those men. Damen himself had had similar thoughts before.
But when Laurent lifted his arms, Leone slowly bowed his, letting Laurent pet his mare.
Vaskian’s tent was so little Damen and Leone were plastered one to another, but Damen didn’t complain. After everything he’d gone through since Kastor’s betrayal, there was nothing comfier, more reassuring than his partner’s steady breath and heartbeat. Leone seemed satisfied in having Damen’s head hidden in his mare.
When Leone had been a pup, Damen always slept with him, keeping him on his chest and his head in the curve of the neck. Then Leone had become too big for it, but they still indulged in cuddling sometimes.
When Laurent joined them in the tent, he found them curled in one another’s. They moved to make his space, but Damen felt a little bit embarrassed. He didn’t want Leone to leave, but it was entirely possible Laurent didn’t want him there. He could almost picture Laurent’s comment: I already bear you as a giant animal in my tent.
Instead, Laurent watched Leone with the same incredulous interest he’d show in the field and Leone stared at him, immobile, as there was no one other places he should be.
“This is Leone,” Damen decided to introduce them. “My Wit partner.”
“I gather that much. Of course you chose someone as bulky as you.” But the tone was somehow affectionate and, when he took off his mantle and joined them, he did it with care. Leone moved as he expected Laurent to lay between him and Damen, something Laurent accept with grace.
Not so much Damen. “We can-”
Laurent cupped Damen’s head with his hands. “Stay still.”
The touch of Laurent’s mind was immediate. Like before, he reached for the barrier. But this time his maneuver, despite the evident fatigue from the battle and the previous days, was precise and decisive. Damen felt the barrier cracked, first a small slit, then a full crevice. Immediately, Leone’s spirit was again present.
“I haven’t realized,” Laurent said, “that he was real. I thought it was a construct of your mind. I’m sorry. It was probably…”
Laurent’ didn’t end the sentence as the barrier crashed down.
Brother
Leone’s tone could be perceived as indifferent, but his relief was clear in Damen’s mind
I thought I could never… hey, wait a minute, haven’t told you to stay with Nik?
I don’t abandon my pack leader
I have so much to tell you
I know. I have some insight from my time with heart-of-the-pack
A tug, and Damen realized Laurent was still in his mind. Damen had never tried to have Leone, or any other animals, communicate with another human being, but because they’re deaf to the Wit. Laurent, with his Skill, could maybe…?
“Can you hear him?” he asked.
Laurent was surprised by the question. “Not… directly. I think.”
Damen tried to create a link between the three of them: something easy, since Leone was again a part of him and Laurent had been in his mind before.
The prince is… an ally now. Things are a lot more complicated in Vere now and I…
I know
Leone’s attention was all on the connection between Damen and Laurent, who hadn’t torn his gaze off from the lion. Then, his eyes widened.
Hello, lioness
The commotion broke Laurent’s icy expression and he threw himself against Leone’s belly, brushing his face on the fur. There was a sort of protective stance in Leone’s attitude, even before Damen had the chance to tell him about everything that had happened. The fury Damen had proved against the bandits’ boss was the same that had brought Leone to attack him.
Because that man had dared touched their pack.
Our lioness -
.
When Damen woke up, lucid for the first time in days, the absence was breathtaking.
Using the Wit, he searched in his mind, calling for his lion, while his mind played the last imagine of his home, the soldiers in his bedroom, Lykaios’ slit throat…
Until Leone answered, his tone snickering.
Relax, I’m here
Relief washed over Damen as he felt the familiar connection with his partner, their mental link strong as ever. He did suspect Kastor would go after him, because he was Damen’s.
Are you okay? Where are you?
Calm down, you’re a lion, not a mother hen
But then Leone shared his memories with Damen. He experienced Leone’s fear during Damen’s battle against Kastor’s men, the way he’d run outside his fence at the royal garden to come to his aid, the soldiers that tried to stop him… And then the pain, when a spear pierced his side.
Damen remembered it, remembered the way it’d distracted him, allowing his opponents to subdue him faster. He remembered telling Leone to run, that there was no way he could have helped Damen, not wounded like that, and Kastor wouldn’t have let him live…
With a growl, filled with rage, Leone had run. Damen saw through his eyes the way he left Ios to reach for the farmland, hiding in the familiar forest when, in their younger head, they both hunt. Damen gritted his teeth at the thought of Leone injured and alone, barely able to sustain himself, the broken spear still on his side.
And then the relief when Leone dragged himself to Nikandros’ party and the way his old friend immediately recognized Damen’s animal partner and saved him. The last memory Leone shared with Damen was of him, safe and with his side bandaged, in Nikandros’ palace in Delpha.
You force me to run from you, I won’t forget
Damen knew Leone’s pride, but after Lykaios’ death he couldn’t afford risking to lose someone else – especially not Leone, that through their connection shared a piece of his soul. Nikandros would threat Leone right because, while being incapable of sharing his mind, was aware of Damen’s secret.
So was Kastor, unfortunately.
The Wit, the ability to connect with his mind to the nature, especially animals, was a long lost legacy of the first Akielos’ monarch. Legends said that in the old days of the Artesian Empire, many people had the Wit, but now it was mostly forgotten. Damen had inherited it from his mother Egeria, but she’d died before she had been able to teach him anything.
Are you still with Nik?
He’s part of our herd
It’s not an answer
A lion shouldn’t be able to roll his eyes, but Leone’s sharing with Damen was too strong and he definitely had too much human’s trait.
I am. I can’t talk to him, but he understands well enough. Leone snorted. I told you Kastor would try to take control of our herd and that woman of yours was no lioness. More of a hyena, eating other’s preys
Thinking about Jokaste’s betrayal was too painful for Damen to bear in a discussion. Leone understood it thought their connection and didn’t press.
I’m staying with Nik until I’m fully healed
You’ll stay here until I’m back
Even if Leone couldn’t communicate with anyone else, it would be too risky for Kastor to keep him alive, considering Damen’s whereabouts. There would be teams looking for him. Nikandros was in danger for hiding him, but at least it was a beginning to Damen to come back to his kingdom.
Where are you?
Damen let himself checking his surrounding for the first time, the way the chains kept him in place, head down to the floor.
Vere
Leone hadn’t born yet during the battle of Marlas, but their past had been shared enough for Leone to understand the precarious of Damen’s situation. If it wasn’t possible, Damen would say Leone swore.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
Under normal circumstances, Damen would have hated it. He already hated that spoiler and arrogant prince he was supposed to be gifted to. The patronizing way he talked and addressed Damen only increased his disliking.
That question, a taunt, should have enraged Damen.
Instead, there was a strange calm in his brain. A nice, coating voice was soothing him.
Say who you are. Say it. Damianos. Prince-killer. Damianos of Akielos. Say it.
Damen opened his mouth. “I…”
Watch out!
Leone roared. The lion’s figure invaded his senses, the voice disappeared. Damen didn’t understand why he’d been so close to reveal himself, as if he’d felt the urge to do so, but now he was himself again.
“I speak your language better than you speak mine, sweetheart.”
Prince Laurent staggered back, as he was slapped, blue eyes wide in shock. For his entourage, the reaction was at Damen’s harsh and impolite words, but Damen was sure Laurend had seen it, had seen the lion leaping out to attack.
Damen raised up his barrier, separating his spirit from the outside. It cut his connection with Leone too. As painful as it was, he needed to be protected that whatever things Laurent was trying to do. Now Damen could felt it, the slight yank of Laurent’s mind knocking at the corner of Damen’s consciousness, but the barrier resisted.
And then, the sensation disappeared as Laurent left.
“Lock him in the harem. After you teach him some manners.”
What was that?
Loud growls in the back of Damen’s mind.
He’d lowered his barrier as soon as he felt safe, even if he was locked in his room, with two guards at the door, bars at the window and a chain connected to the wall. But Leone was pacing and its nervousness was urging at Damen.
I don’t know. I never experienced something like that
No. That wasn’t true.
Damen remembered the battle of Marlas. Veretians had been outnumbered yet they had hold the line. There had been no fear in their eyes and movements as they’d followed their commander, Prince Auguste, during their charges. On the contrary, the akielons, despite having the advantages, had appeared timid in their actions, much for his father’s distress.
When Damen had asked to face the enemy prince one to one, he’d faced briefly the same uncertainty. A second before he’d been confident of his fighting skill, a second later he’d been troubled, as he’d cut his path towards Auguste. The prince had shimmered gold on the field, giving the idea he couldn’t be defeated.
At the time, Damen was tied to his mare. She’d been the one warning him to close his barrier and isolate his spirit. Once done it, Damen’s fears had disappeared. At the time, he’d thought it was only because the barrier helped him to focus and not perceiving the other soldiers’ feeling.
But if it was Auguste’s Wit, it wasn’t far-fetched thinking his little brother had the same ability.
Damen shared the memories with Leone.
It’s not the Wit Leone now was pacing for real in his private den. You share your spirit, you didn’t control others
Damen snickered. Typical of the veretians, twisting something precious in something deviant and treacherous
And dangerous. If Leone wouldn’t have intervened in time, he would have obeyed the voice in his mind and now probably his head would have decorated a pike in front of the castle’s gate.
Better put up your barrier as much as you can I don’t think the princeling has ended with you
Despite Leone’s warning, Damen didn’t notice anymore attempt to invade his mind from Laurent’s side.
Not when he woke up Damen in the middle of the night to threaten him with rape, not when he actually tried to have him raped by Govart.
That’s predators for you Leone commented We are patient. We wait until our prey is the most unaware
But, in Damen’s mind, Laurent wasn’t a noble predator. Not brave like a lion, or fast a leopard, or elegant like a panther, despite his obvious good look. Not even an honorable wolf.
Laurent was more as a reptile, like a snake or a scorpion, hiding in the ground and the tall grass, invisible and deadly.
Or a spider. A poison spider, buying his time to weave his web, wire after wire until the poor bee or butterflies hadn’t a way to escape for the treachery trap.
Not having seen Laurent for days, it was easy to imagine him plotting something just like that.
Damen didn’t recognize his own metaphor when Laurent ordered him a service in the bath and, with his barrier closed, even Leone wasn’t able to warn him. Only when he was tied up to the cross, his back a puzzle of bloody meat for the whipping, Damen saw the extend of Laurent’s trap.
The pain was unbearable, but Damen gritted his teeth and remained conscious. The more the slashes continued, the harder was focusing on keeping the barrier out. Leone growled behind it: even if it formed a shield against the pain, the feeling was too strong not to be perceived.
The tug in his mind was delicate, the first time Laurent tried.
Unlike the first time, there wasn’t any orders, no voice pressing Damen to do something. Only a faint sensation, not different from when animals around reached for him. But while animals were spontaneous in their attempts, as they didn’t even realize that Damen could perceive them, Laurent’s way was precise, the same cold mannerism he expressed by simply remained there, arms crossed, leisurely leaned to the wall as he watched Damen being flogged.
Laurent was trying to break his barrier in a delicate method and looked for something specific. His identity, maybe, or a sign of weakness to exploit more.
Damen resisted the first whipping, and there was triumph in his answer.
The second, he could feel the barrier wandered, and Laurent’s attempt becoming more aggressive, even if still unsuccessful.
But Laurent’s sentence broke him.
“Damianos, the dead prince of Akeilos. The man that kill my brother.”
Damen shouldn’t have. He wouldn’t have, if he wasn’t for the deadly pain that his back spread in his entire body and soul.
Instead, his mind returned immediately back at that day at Marlas, his excitation, the color of the sky, the blood on in sword, Auguste’s face… Damen closed his barrier around those memories… and that was when Laurent broke inside him.
Damen felt immediately naked, his past bare just to be exploited. The battle of Marlas wasn’t the only point that could reveal his identity, every part of him was Prince Damianos. The idea of Laurent using them as his personal leisure book rise Damen’s anger.
If the prince wanted to invade his privacy, he needed to be ready to be rewarded the same manner.
With the last remaining strength, he let his barrier down and set Leone on the loose. He repelled his entire soul using Leone’s strengh and violence. He saw with his mind eyes Laurent struggling back as the lion attacked him.
Memories that wasn’t Damen clouded his vision, but before he could grasp any of them, a wave of force slammed him away, shutting him out of Laurent’s spirit and making Leone’s impression disappeared.
The last thing Damen saw was a crying blond child in front of a lion. Then, the pain took over and he fainted.
Given that he was still alive and Laurent’d ordered his wounds to be treated, Damen guessed he’d been fast enough to avoid the discovery of his identity. His back, despite the heavy bandages and the cream and the medicine, hurt and made impossible for Damen to move.
But he’d survived, he’d beaten Laurent’s strange ability at his own game and he would have another chance at escaping, and that was the important thing.
He was surprised Leone hadn’t talked to him yet. Damen expected his Wit partner to be as angry as him, even more. The lion took personal any offence to his pack leader and the inability to help wasn’t an easy thing to accept. And Damen, blinded with pain, hadn’t been the best company in the last days.
Being unconscious wasn’t a habit I’m enjoying
No answer.
Slowly, Damen pulled the corner of his mind, brushing where Leone’s consciousness rested when they were separated and didn’t talk.
Instead of feeling the familiar feeling of Leone’s essence, he felt a wall. Damen’s Wit slammed against it, realizing it wasn’t a personal choice. It was something similar to his own barrier, but it felt stranger and Damen, no matter how he tried, couldn’t erase it.
But the print of it was clear during his attempts of freeing himself: it was Laurent’s soul.
Opening his spirit, Damen relaxed at realizing that he still had his ability, he still could use the Wit to connect with reality. It was just Leone he couldn’t contact.
Whatever Laurent had done at the cross to shut Damen out had completely cut his ties with Leone, severing their connection with that walls.
What the whipping hadn’t broke, that did it.
Nothing Laurent could give him would top the pain of losing his Wit Partner.
Not that Laurent didn’t try to make Damen’s life even more miserable.
Every enjoyment Damen felt over the Regent’s lecture was destroyed by Laurent’s merciless used of him, first as a tool for his reputation and then as a sexual show with Ancel. But Laurent didn’t pry in Damen’s mind anymore, which was a small mercy of himself.
So, when Damen was forced to ask for his help on the Akielon slaves’ behalf, he knew he had something to offer: his obedience, that Laurent couldn’t snatch with his freak mind control.
And when Laurent didn’t believe him about his good faith, Damen was done. He stood up in all of his size and stopped playing servant.
“Check my memory. I’ll let you. At least you will believe me.”
It was the first time they spoke loudly about it, but Damen knew Laurent was aware of what he was talking about. His gaze shifted barely to Radel and the guard, who instead were unaware of the conversation going on. His expression didn’t change, however, but his eyes narrowed a little and he lifted his hand.
“Leave us.”
Both Radel and the guard seemed more than please to do so.
Once alone, Laurent didn’t release his spirit. He didn’t pull at Damen’s soul as usual. So it was Damen that opened himself, in the same way he did when he tried to catch the attention of an animals. He didn’t do with people, even if, as a child, was able to feel emotion sometimes. Instead of just transmitting an emotion, Damen focused on the image of him and Erasmus in the garden before Govart’s arrival.
Immediately, Laurent shut him out.
“Do not dare.”
Damen sighed in exasperation. “I don’t know how else to do to convince you. What’s more real of my memory? You already tried to watch them.”
“And you didn’t?”
“To defend myself.”
At that, Laurent didn’t answer. “And of course you won’t coax a right memory, just one that can appeal me and hide any involvement with my uncle.”
“There is something that can appeal you?” Damen replied, unnerved, before the truth of Laurent’s word it him. “I can’t make up memories, that’s not how the Wit is. But I guess you do, with the twisted way you use it.”
“The Wit,” Laurent repeated.
Then, Damen felt a surge of force inside his mind. He didn’t oppose it, no matter how his entire being protested at being used.
Knell
Damen feel on his knee, his body obeyed the voice in his mind. His limbs moved as the voice – Laurent’s voice – commanded it more, until he was with his forehead on the floor, the arms limp in front of him.
Then, Damen raised his barrier and Laurent stepped back, his hold on Damen lost.
“I will obey you willingly, without all this,” Damen said, without moving from the position, “just help the slaves.”
“If you blurt out tonight plan to him, he will be very, very annoyed with me, which you may enjoy, but you won’t like my repost.”
It was what Laurent had said and Damen didn’t doubt he would hold his threat; he’d made very clear his fellow akielons would take the hit. So Damen wasn’t especially thrilled to be alone in the Regent’s presence, considering how paranoid Laurent had been. If Laurent wasn’t ready to pry Damen’s memory to assure the truth, Damen had no way to prove his loyalty.
Until that moment, the Regent had proved to be a reliable man, definitely more than the nephew. Except for the veretian way of informing about others’ sexual life, Damen would consider asking him for help.
“Did you take my nephew?”
“No, Your Highness.”
Since Laurent hadn’t been inclined since the flogging to invade his mind, Damen had his barrier down in the hope Leone would be able somehow to break whatever wall Laurent had imposed between them. So he noticed immediately how the Regent’s mind touched his own.
It shouldn’t be surprising: if the two royal brothers had the power, it was a family heritage, just like Damen’s.
“The other way around, perhaps.”
“No.”
As much as he was less afraid of the Regent discovering his real identity, he was still a veretian and Damen had killed one of his nephew, probably the best one. But he wanted to end the conversation, so he opened his spirit to his recent memory of Laurent, the one at the cross. And then some others to his solitary time in his cell.
The touch of mind retreated, and despite the Regent’s disappointment at Damen’s submission after the flogging, he seemed accepting the explanation with no necessity of searching for more.
“His brother was a true leader, he could inspire extraordinary loyalty from his man. Laurent has only superficial of his brother gift, which he uses to get his own way.”
The Regent spoke in general terms, but it was easy reading from the lines about the ‘gift’ he was talking about. Remembering the force of Auguste’s on the field, now aware of where it’d came from, Damen was glad Laurent wasn’t as good as his brother.
At least, Auguste was honorable: he hadn’t use it during their duel, as Damen hadn’t use the Wit. It had been… a fair fight. Yes.
Laurent had tried to manipulate Damen since the first encounter and when it didn’t work, he cut off his tie with Leone, effectively hurt and isolated him. Even if Laurent was at the moment actively working on Damen and the slaves’ behalf, surely he got a good deal, having Damen’s obedience that he couldn’t obtain with mental control.
And how good the Regent was with it? Could he destroy the wall Laurent had erected between Damen and Leone? Damen could tell the Regent and gain a bargain out of it: having back his Wit partner and avoiding being in the hands of the unpredictable and cruel man that Laurent was.
It was only Damen’s conscience that didn’t want to betray Laurent.
The Regent accepted Damen’s rejection with grace.
“As for the rest, we would see.”
A surge of power exploded in Damen’s brain. A commanding voice resonated in him, taking all his control not to pale.
As soon as the occasion arise, and the two of you are alone, rape Laurent
The shock paralyzed Damen for a second, but the Regent’s expression hadn’t faltered, still calm, still collected, as he hadn’t just use a twisted brain washing power to convince Damen to do horrible things to his nephew like it was a minor occurrence. By the way he acted, he had no idea Damen perceived his order clearly, realizing it came from an external source.
“That would do for now. Go and fetch my nephew.”
With Laurent, Damen didn’t expect it and Leone was with him, so they were forced to reveal the Wit that allowed Damen to resist any intrusion in his mind. Now he had nothing of Leone’s impulsivity thanks to Laurent’s wall.
The desire swirled inside him, caused by the order, and gave him and exact image of a naked Laurent laying under him as he fucked him. It wasn’t unpleasant, probably another consequence of the order. Laurent’s appearance was more than pleasant, but Damen had not the habit to sleep with snakes.
Damen managed to blurt out a “Yes, Your Highness” before escaping.
He didn’t trust himself to run immediately to Laurent, he couldn’t be sure that the order wouldn’t get in function if he spotted him alone with Torveld in a private balcony. Torveld’s presence would definitely make the entire ordeal even more embarrassing.
When he felt enough far from the Regent’s grasp, he released his spirit and cancelled the order from his brain. Breathing hard, he recalled Laurent’s naked memory of the bath. It was tainted from the subsequent following, so Damen didn’t feel anymore the arousal that the Regent’s plot.
Reassured, he reached for Laurent: as he’d predicted, he was alone with Torveld.
Because his spirit was still opened, aware of the surrounding, Damen immediately noticed how Laurent’s mind was swirling around Torveld’s consciousness. There were no direct orders, just a little bit stimulus that increased Torveld’s already admiration of him. Torveld didn’t have any means to fight it.
Damen asked a silent forgiving to Torveld for his previous assessment: his love for Laurent probably came from a brain-washing, not for some sort of preference for reptiles. How low Vere was, where love was or bought or forced.
Damen’s incredulity at finding fault in the Regent’s decent man mask tempered mildly the satisfaction of Laurent’s success. Despite his ability, Laurent had used other means to convince Torveld to bring the slaves with him and, about it, Damen could be grateful.
He would keep his word until Torveld’s departure and then he would resume his attempt to escape and return to his country. As much as he despised the Regent’s attempt of using Damen to punish Laurent thought rape, Damen wanted nothing to do with Vere’s plot. He had enough of his own.
But he was in enough good humor that, when he saw Laurent’s mare being a little bit too agitated. Laurent wasn’t using his power, just patting her neck with unconventional gentles.
Without asking permission, Damen placed a hand on the horse’s muzzle and used the Wit to connect with her. With quiet horses, the response was usually immediate, but Laurent’s was frantic and Damen took a while to catch her attention.
It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts
She was panicking.
What hurt?
Everything everything everything everything
“You can’t take her,” Damen said.
Laurent stared at him with cold, blue eyes.
“She’s sick, somehow. She can’t trot. She need rest and a vet. The sooner the better.”
Laurent was too stubborn to believe him. Damen tried to channel to him the mare’s suffering, but Laurent erected his wall and shut him out as he turned to Torveld.
Frustrated, Damen walked away.
He felt regretful when the guard informed him that the horse died; even worse, she’d been killed by Laurent himself because he forced he too much. If only Laurent would have listened to him…!
When the Regent left the tent, Damen exploded.
“I warned you she was in any condition to run. You killed her.”
Laurent’s bad humor didn’t let him answer to Damen’s rage. “It’s just a horse. I’ll have my uncle buy me a new one.”
“Just a horse?” Damen threw his arms in frustration. “You have the Wit, you should know that animals are more than that. All the nature around us is part of something bigger. How can you?”
But he already had his answer: Laurent was cold and cruel and used the Wit for his own gain.
“And you?” Laurent was impassible. “Are you telling me you never participate in a hunt? Never killed any animals. Or maybe you’re telling me that you prefer slaughtering good men instead?”
There was a moment Damen expected Laurent to pry his mind, searching for a memory of his killing, and he braced for it. Instead, Laurent’s spirit remained still, his barrier high. When Damen tried to brush him, he was immediately rejected, hiding his true feeling.
“I hunt,” Damen said, “but I respect my prey. They give me nutrition and energy. When I die, my spirit will return to the ground, helping plants grown for the animals. What you did to your horse…”
“I’m sure the men you gut on Marlas were happy of your respect,” Laurent cut him.
When the occasion arose, the Regent’s order had said.
Damen now knew that he had any intention of creating that occasion, when the three men came for bringing him to Laurent’s room and left the two of them alone, with Damen completely unrestrained. For good measurement, Laurent had also been drugged – Damen was aware of it the moment he could perceive his wandering spirit, which was unable to raise any barrier.
Despite that, Laurent was immediately aware of the dangerous of the situation. To reassure him, Damen remained completely still near the door where the three guards had left him.
He said, “Your uncle would like me to rape you.”
There was no reaction in Laurent’s face, but Damen didn’t miss the slight tension of his body. He stood up from the sofa, abandoning his book, and putting himself in a more protect position.
“I doubt my uncle would have been so straightforward.”
“He wasn’t,” Damen said.
Laurent narrowed his eyes. The implication of Damen’s words were clear, but he didn’t seem to trust that Damen wouldn’t follow that order.
“I’m not going to rape you.”
“No?” Laurent’s tone was almost disappointed. “Ah, I forgot. You like more killing people. Should I be insulted you haven’t even a weapon with you?”
It took a second for Damen to understand. “I won’t kill you either. You are unarmed.”
Any other objection was interrupted by the three men’s entrance. Apparently, the Regent wasn’t taking any chance and they were ordered to check if there were no familiar rumors of sexual intercourse. The battle broke out soon after, and with the Regent’s Guard arrival, there wasn’t more time to deepened the conversation.
The fact that Damen had helped Laurent to kill the three assaulters seemed to close the question about how Damen stood in the battle with the Regent, at the point he even protected Damen from the guards. But it was probably because of the drug: it was baffled, for Damen, that Laurent was still much in control of himself.
However, Damen stood to no side in Vere’s battle for power. He stood only to Akielos.
Laurent’s protection had come out only from Damen’s desire to not let the same thing happening to another man, being betrayed and hurt in their private room. But that didn’t mean he now liked Laurent, or he was on his side.
On the contrary, he was taking his chance to leave, no matter how much Laurent tried to object. The drug impeded him to use the Wit on Damen and, in any case, Damen had already proved to be stronger to any of that sickening family command.
“Trust you? You used a precious ability in such a twisted way you can’t even trust memory. You mess with people’s head for you own gain. You cut off my partner for me. You were the last person I would ever trust.”
He was more than happy to leave Vere Castle to his back. And yet the crawling sensation of abandonment didn’t leave him, especially after meeting with a very unusual timid Nicaise. He left Laurent alone, and drugged, and vulnerable.
Alone lions are bound to die Leone had told him once. Herd is important for us to protection and we are ready to live under someone else command but not being alone
It was the reason Leone had accepted Damen’s partnership. Kicked out his animal herd, he was alone and hungry in the forest where Damen had found him, sick and hungry. Leone had more than happy to be welcomed in Damen’s family.
But no: Laurent wasn’t a lion. Snake had their own means to survive. And Damen had his own pack to take care of, and he’d left them alone enough.
Laurent did have a herd, but he wasn’t the pack master. He was the lonely lion about to be kicked out.
“My nephew has argued for you very persuasively,” said the Regent. “You must have hidden charm. Maybe it’s your physique he finds so appealing. Or you have other talents?”
To the eyes of everyone in the council room, the Regent’s words could be taken as indication of sexual prowess. But, at that point, the Regent knew his attempt at brainwashing Damen had failed, as his nephew was still alive and with his virtue intact.
Damen prepared himself at the intrusion in his mind that happened a second later, the Regent searching for any clues. Before Damen raised his barrier, he felt another surge of energy and the Regent’s spirit was repelled away. A calm, cold wall was all around Damen’s soul, shielding him from the outside but allowing him to still move his Wit free.
Laurent. The print was unmistakable.
Damen eyed him, but Laurent didn’t turn, his eyes always fixed to his uncle and the members of the council.
Their expression didn’t betray anything, only Damen seemed aware of the silent battle going on. Because now that he paid attention, that he could let his spirit wandered free well protected by Laurent’s ability itself, Damen saw clearly the fight of Wits that was happening in front of him.
The Regent’s was stronger, aggressive, while Laurent was a light touch, precise like a chirurgical knife. They argued, but the true discussion was happening behind curtains, where both of them tried to bring the councilors on their side, not with arguments but pressing on the right spot in the brain, murmuring orders and suggestion directly on people’s soul.
It was a work of art. It was also horrible.
In the end, Laurent lost. He won on the only thing that mattered most – Damen’s safety – but Damen could see the moment his strength wandered and the Regent took that opportunity. Laurent’s subtitle wasn’t enough to extract from the men the idea that Laurent needed to do duty service at the border with Akielos.
Damen saw the moment Laurent retreated, the walls around Damen disappeared while Laurent hid again his soul inside himself. He ignored Damen’s gaze now that they were alone in the throne room, with Damen again unrestrained, and he sat down tired on the throne.
“You can’t go to the border,” Damen said.
Laurent raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “And why is that?”
“Do I need to speak out loud?” Damen’s spirit roamed free, so he knew there were no one around to listen but them. “Your uncle wants an Akielon rape you. Then kill you, probably, if the weapons those men had was of any indication. He wants a war with Akielos and you dead. The borders are just the perfect place.”
Of course Laurent knew all of this. “And why do you care?” He examined his nails. “Maybe you don’t fuck boys, but don’t tell me you haven’t imagine me dead once. Or twice. Or one hundred.”
“I have,” Damen said, because they were over lying at that point. “But you also saved my life and for that I am gratef-”
“There’s nothing further between us, certainly no thanks.”
But as much as Laurent was protected behind his wall, it wasn’t enough. The battle with his uncle had drained his energy just after being drugged. Damen could see the uncertainty, the puzzle Laurent couldn’t resolve about Damen’s actions.
Damen let his spirit touch Laurent’s, just a little, to not scare him. Then, he passed him the memory of Kastor’s betrayal, just a glimpse, so Laurent couldn’t recognize him, but it was enough: the hurt, the pain, the horror of seeing Lykaios gutted in front of him. Laurent hid the horror very well.
“I was betrayed too,” Damen murmured, soft. Then, we more strength, he added, “you can’t go at the borders. Your uncle had already powers over all your Council and if you’re not around to fight it-”
“It’s too late.” Laurent betrayed his impatience for the first time. “You perceive it. He gave them the orders and now they’re convinced it’s their ideas: I don’t have the time to change it and they won’t stop until I am there.”
“Then bring me with you!” Damen blurted out.
It was a sudden thought, but it made sense. “I don’t want a war between Vere and Akeilos.” Not now that his country was already at risky of a civil war. “I am an asset. I know the region. I will do whatever it takes to stop your uncle.”
“The fact that we ride towards Akielos factors in your request not at all?”
Damen blinked. It wasn’t not his first thought but now he couldn’t divert his hope from it. However, that was coincidental at the moment. He tried to calm himself, preparing to reason with Laurent, that was expert in diversion.
“You need someone that can resist your uncle’s power. What if he enchants your army too? You will find yourself at the mercy of hundred men. And, by the way they talk about you, I gather it’ll take very few from your uncle to press on their impulse.”
It was cruel, but it needed to be spoken out loud. Damen had been in war. He knew how it was, how cruel it could be.
“You, instead, are so good to restrain yourself,” Laurent said. “I remember clearly in the bath.”
Damen flushed. He couldn’t deny it and Leone’s snickered was so clearly in his mind that made the absence even more painful. “That… Wasn’t an order from your uncle. I didn’t do what he ordered me to.”
“You don’t?”
“Your ass will know, if I would have.” It was enough to make Laurent pose and Damen took his chance to plead his case. “I’ll be the only man you can trust not to be at your uncle’s service. Both because my Wit and my desire to protect Akielos. Isn’t that enough for you?”
Damen wished he could show Laurent more of himself, but revealing himself as his brother’s killer while pleading him wasn’t the wise choice. But his spirit was free, like when he walked in the forest and wanted to sooth the animals around so they wouldn’t be scared by his presence.
With studied movements, Laurent rose from the throne and sauntered to Damen.
“What is enough to me is seeing you rot in that cell of yours forever.”
And yet, Laurent called for him the day of their departures.
Damen had lost his hope, at that point, as his spirit caught the struggle of the people around the prince’s wing, busy with preparation for the departure. He was ready to whiter in that small room, cut off from Leone forever. Not matter how he tried, that barrier withhold.
Instead, at the last minute, he found himself in the middle of the army Laurent was about to guide at the border, with a full armor and even a sword. If the men of the Prince’s Guard were surprised by it, they didn’t show it, even if Jord was kind enough to confirm Damen’s suspects: the Regent was sending Laurent to his death with most of his own men and with his lapdog Govart as a captain. It was a recipe for a disaster even Damen wasn’t sure he could prevent.
Laurent had ignored him for mostly of the process and Damen hadn’t looked for him. He didn’t need an explanation for Laurent’s change of heart, he was more than content with it. Besides, he could guess it: Laurent had proved to be clever and surely he’d seen the benefits of having Damen around once he’d calmed down.
They were already on the road when Damen heard from him.
My uncle isn’t strong enough to control an entire army
The voice was in his mind, but it was unmistakably Laurent’s. He wasn’t try to influence him, or to break his defence, he was just… talking. Like Leone used to. The feeling of being connected again was overwhelming that he didn’t react immediately.
But he didn’t need to. Most of those are already his men, believing all the lies he’d spread
Carefully, Damen answered. It was the first time he had such a conversation with another human being.
How are you so sure?
Do you think I’ll be still alive if he can control so many people? If so, he would have coerced the entire palace to participate at my murder and then forget about it
Maybe he was just waiting for an Akielon to blame
There was a snickered that riverbed in all Damen’s soul
Considering he risked with that order, it may be plausible. Maybe he considers the Akielon so barbaric that they’re easily to control, like animals. I mean, can I blame him?
Damen decided to ignore the remarks.
Even if he didn’t control an entire army, few men can be sufficent
And you think you can beat ‘few’ men? Then, try not to make faces, soldiers around you might start to suspect you’re a weirdo
You’re the one talking in my mind
However, Damen control around him. The look he received were mildly curious, but more about his presence in the army that about any bizarre of his behavior.
He reached again for Laurent, feeling his presence. He was bright in his mind as he was bright in reality, but most of himself was hid between thick barriers. There was only a little space opened for Damen.
And you? He asked tentatively
Laurent tightened at the contact, but didn’t repel it.
I think I’m civilized enough to restrain himself by the disgust of you in my mind
You were the one to start, Damen wanted to protest. Instead, he said, can you control an entire army?
The thought was unnerving, even if, in the current state of situation, valuable. Auguste had been, Damen believed, if the bravery of veretian soldiers and the fear of akielons were of any indication. Laurent had no love for Akielos and Damen wondered if he would ready to declare war once he would defeat his uncle and crowded king.
But that was a problem for another day. Now Damen had to stop the conflict until he was back in Ios and would deal with Kastor and the kyroi. And if he had to protect Laurent to do so, then be it.
Laurent didn’t answer. On the contrary, he shut Damen out his mind.
So Damen returned his eyes on the road that waited him. South, and home. -
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After so many years spent in the army at the borders of Germany Province, returing to Rome was strange for Marco. He couldn’t say he appreciated the capital of the Empire: he was born in a small village of a far province of Giudea and his relationship with the Romans had always been bad.
Rome was a big, chaotich and dirty city; everything that mattered happened there, or at least they thought so, and the conspiration and the subtitle roamed freerly. In the army, everything was clear, and the enemy visible in front of him.
Marco couldn’t wait to join back his legion, his family. His Pops, his commander, had ordered him to return for his promotion, and Marco wasn’t the kind of man to defy the order to the man that had given back a purpuose to him. His idea was to spent the little time possible in Rome.
Right now, he was resting in one of the lower tavern of the Suburra quartier, where he managed to rent a room for a couple of nights. Despite being a successful soldier, with enough funds to live confortable, he didn’t want to attract the attention of unwanted people. No one would look for him in that hole.
He was, of course, wrong.
“The next one is on me.”
A stranger place a silver coin on the counter and sat down next to Marco. He wore a brown hood with a mantel that hid his features entirely; yet, experience in combat told Marco he was a fighter, and his accent was from someone that was born in Rome, probably from aristocracy. Young, too.
“Thanks,” he said dully, hoping the stranger would take it as a clue to leave.
Instead, the stranger said, “I need a favor from you.”
“Not interested.”
“You haven’t heard about it yet.”
“No need,” Marco replied. “I’m here only for a couple of days, and I don’t plan to get in trouble. And I definitely haven’t an habit to help people I don’t know, even less people that don’t even introduce themselves.”
The stranger nodded, still he didn’t offer Marco his name. Instead, he said, “have you ever heard of Portgas D. Ace?”
Actually, he had. The name had reached his legion, which was strange because they’re barely informed about what happened ourside their camp, living very secluded from the rest of the empire. But Pops had taken information about this young soldier that held very well the line, almost by himself after the death of his captain, and was rewarded by the emperor himself.
Although Marco knew, he answered, “should I?”
“Maybe.” The stranger shrugged. “He’s been arrested.”
“Arrested? For what?”
“Treason.”
“And it is true?” Marco found himself asking, and then he mentally scolded himself for showing interested.
“Does it matter?” The foreign smirked, and for the first time he let Marco saw a little of his face, his blonde hair and the scar on the right side. “But no, it’s not true. They arrested him because they found out is Gold Roger’s son, and that’s reason enough.”
Marco couldn’t hide his surprise. He knew Roger very well, had even met the man in person quite some times, before he went and tried to overrule the empire, starting his conquest from the England province. He had no idea he had a son.
“They’re going to execute him?”
“They tried.” The stranger snickered. “They have a beast eat him during games. Funny enough, instead of eating him, the beast protected him. Apparently, Portgas had aided the panther during his campain in Africa.”
“Sounds like a fairy tale,” Marco stated.
“Maybe it is, maybe not.” The stranger sip something from his glass. “But what people will think of it?”
“That this man is protected by the gods.”
“Exactly.”
For the love of the Gods, Marco thought, now he was interested. He should have leave when he still had the chance. He drank down his wine.
“What do you want?”
For a second, the strager didn’t answer. “I want you to train Ace.”
“Train?” Marco blinked. He didn’t expect that.
“Since what happened with the panther, the emperor and his SCAGNOZZI couldn’t simply executed hima gain, so they turned him into a gladiator. Promise that, if he wins enough battle, they will grant him freedom.”
“I guess they hope he dies sooner or later.”
The stranger nodded. “That’s why they scheduled his next match against Doma, which is right now the strongest gladiator around. Officially, the reason was that Doma was a german, and it’s unwhorty of the romans to not being able to defeat him, so they rely on the ‘protected by the gods’ for it. Unoficially, they hope he loses.”
“And you think so, too?”
“Let’s say I’d prefer to not take risks.”
“Why me?”
“Because I know who you are, Marco the Phoenix.” The stranger looked straight in his eyes. “Undefeated Gladiator, thrteeen match in a row unscatered. They called you the Phoenix because no matter how serious your wounded were, you always turned up again.”
“I was luckly.”
Inside himself, Marco cringed. No one should know about his past. The days in the arena were something he tried to forget. The blood, the warm of the sun against the armor, the dust of the yellow and red sand around the ring… battle at the borders weren’t less cruel, yet they had something fight in the arena never had: comrades.
But there was one more pressant matter on the question: gladiators were revered and ostracized altogether. At the borders, under Pops’ protection, who he was, who he had been, didn’t matter at all. In the capital, it was a different matter entirely and a former gladiator wouldn’t be regarded with favor for a promotion. Marco really didn’t care about it, but it cared about returning home soon. A wrong rumor could delay it, and the man in front seemed the right kind of person that traded with rumors.
And, worse than everything else, the tone of the stranger’s voice gave him a certain: he knew about Marco’s secret, and that was no good.
“Are you threatening me?”
The stranger shook his head. “No need.”
“Because, from what I’ve seen, and from what you are, now you’re interested. Why should I force you on something you’re already willingy to do?”
And it was true: now Marco was interested. Not that it was ready to admit it.
“Who are you?”
“It’s not important,” the stranger replied, and stood up. He slid another coin on the counter. “What it’s important is Ace’s life. You’ll find hima t the Impel Down Gladiator School.”
Of course. The official school of Gladiators of the Empire. Marco doubted that, if they really wanted him dead, they would risk having him somewhere else when it might cause trouble. It was unfortunate: any lanister, Marco knew better. The Imperial ones… might be difficult to convince.
“I give you no guarantee.”
“I asked for none. Just a heartwilling attempt. And…” The stranger hesitated. “Thank you.”
When the stranger left, Marco remained alone in the tavern, recoleccting his thoughts and hearing again the confusion around him, that the presence of the stranger had somehow attenuated. He still didn’t know exactly what had happened.
What he knew for certain was that his return home had just been delayed and that, the day after, he would pay a visit to the Impel Down Gladiator School.
Impel Down’s lanista was Magellan, a scary and imponent man. Marco didn’t know him personally, but his reputation preceded him. He wasn’t cruel per se, but he governed his school with iron fist. No one of his gladiator had ever dared to think of a revolt, let’s aside trying one. Punishiment were something no one would take lightly. Marco had meet enough lanista to recognize a good one when he saw one. The problem was that lanista weren’t good to begin with.
Magellan had heard about Marco too. It was to be expected, since knowledge of gladiators and gladiators’ tecniques was indispensable in the job. As much as Marco didn’t like his past to be such a public knowledge, this time it could be at his advatage.
“So, Phoenix, what I can do for you?” Magellan asked. “I have to say, I’m surprised of your visit. Tired of the army? Do you want another chance in the arena?”
“No and yes,” Marco replied. His stance were relaxed, as he sat in front of him. “I’ve heard you had a young gladiator, very promising. Goes with the name of Ace.”
“Oh, yes.” Magellan snapped his fingers. “A pain in the ass, that one. People already revered him as the Gods’ chosen, but he is nothing more than a brat. Most of my men declared they would prefer trying their fortune with a Vestal than train him.”
“But he’s good?”
“He’s great, actually. If he would be just a little bit disciplined… I may used him for years.” He shrugged. “At this rate, he wouldn’t last long.”
Marco scrutinized him: Magellan looked sincere, so maybe he didn’t know the plot against Ace in order to have him killed. But Magellan was a lanista: maybe he knew, and a part of him hoped that plot didn’t work. It wasn’t goof for affairs when the better gladiators die.
“I may help with that,” Marco said. “In truth, I’m here to ask you the permission of traing Ace.”
Magellan looked at him bewildered. “That’s a pretty strange request. How come?”
“Well, you know my story, and you’re aware of Pops – my commander’s reputation. We always look for promising men, and we’re not timid to search for them in the strangest place. Pops got an interest on this man.”
“The price for Ace’s freedom is high, I tell you. It may even been impossible to pay.”
Marco shrugged. “Buti f Ace dies, we don’t even get the chance to try.”
For a while, Magellan didn’t answer. He sat there, in his chair, hands below his chin, lost in deep thoughts. Then, he nodded. “Ace is scheduled for a fight in thirthy days.”
“Against who?”
“That is a secret, for now,” Magellan replied, and this time Marco had the impression he knew more than he was saying. “You have my permission to train it for this fight. If he survive, we’ll talk a little better at the arrangement. If he dies,” he shook his head, “it won’t matter anymore, will it?”
“I don’t plan to have him die. That’s why I’m here.”
Magellan nodded. “But I have to warn you: training that little beast isn’t easy as you may think.”
Magellan’s assistance Hannyabal guided him inside the gladiator school. Other trainers were taking care of the gladiators and Marco breathed hard, the memories of his time inside a school not much different returned fully. He recognized the charateristics of the different fighting style and noticed his hand twiced in anticipation.
Ace wasn’t training with any of the other group. He didn’t even had a trainers. He was alone, in front of a pole he used like an adversary, and moved his wooden sword around ita s it was an ax. His wrist and anckles, Marco noticed, were shackled. Not enough to impede him to fight, but enough to avoid any escape attempt.
He stopped Hannyabal before he could interrupt Ace’s movement. Before approaching him, Marco wanted to observed him a little more. He was strong, of course, his arms’ muscles flexed in the movement as he hit repetely the pole, and his stance was aggressive but focused.
Another thing Marco noticed with second hand embarassement was that Ace was beautiful. He was young, more than half younger than Marco, with thick dark hair, intense dark hair and freckes spreaded all around his cheeks. The sweat enlighted his perfect almost naked body and Marco thought he wouldn’t disfigure next to a statue made by a greek’s artist of an ancient hero.
Then Ace turned, saw them and gritted his teeth. The intense glare of hatred Ace had was enough to wake up Marco by his lust’s thought. Ace stopped hit the pole, but kept the wooden sword in hand.
“What?” he demanded.
“This is Marco,” Hannyabal introduced him. “He’ll be your trainee from now on.”
“I don’t need a trainee.”
Marco expected that answer. “Which show you how much you need to learn still,” he said, gently. Then, turning a little towards Hannyabal, he prevented any reply from Ace and said, “can you provide me two swords. Real sword, made of iron. And can you take off the shakles, please?”
Hannyabal hesitated. “Magellan’s orders-”
“If I am to be his trainee, I need freedom.”
“Fine. But if he kills you, I’ll not be responsible.”
As Hannyabal left to fecth the swords, Ace snorted and threw the wooden one on the floor. “Feeling suicidal today, old man?”
“I hope you’ll regret it once this old man out you in the dirt.”
“Not likely.” Ace crossed his arms and smirked.
Funny thing, Marco realized he actually liked Ace. The man was a brat, of course, understadable from his young age and the situation he was put in, and also too much overconfidence. But the fire in his eyes was something Marco was lured to.
Once Hannyabal was back, Marco oberved with interest as Ace let him docily take off the shakles and then took the sword. A more agressive prisoner, a more imprudent one, might have try to kill Hannyabal, or at least scare him. Ace did neither: he weighted the sword on his palm and then tried some basic movement to get used to it and freed his muscle by the constriction on the chains. Once finisched, he reserved a gaze to Marco, who stood there, the hand gripped around the sword’s hilt but the tip brushing the ground.
“Ready?” he asked Marco. A second later, he attacked.
Both Magellan and the stranger had said Ace was good, and they’re not mistaken. He got speed and force and good instinct. Despite the fact he kept the sword with both hands, he was able enough to anticipate any threat not having a shield might bring, and so evitated them. His sword sang in the hair, the tinking sound resounded in the area as their blade clashed together.
Marco retreated, as he let Ace guiding the fight so he could observed better his movements, the way his foot shifted, his eyes moved around, and his stance changed during the different kind of attack. Also, Ace wasn’t stupid. Despite having the upper hand, he realized he hadn’t really put Marco at any disvantaged, and that Marco had been able to parry each blow, even if he kept the sword with only one hand.
“Are you playing with me?”
“No,” Marco answered. “I’m teaching you.”
With a movement of his wrist, he moved his sword in a horizontal position with the intention of slashing Ace’s chest. Immediately, Ace lowered his sword to parry and, at that moment, Marco lunged his foot and kicked one of Ace’s ankles. Ace lost his balance for a second, but was able not to fall. Yet, those second lost mad ehis concentration on the sword fell, and his grip became sloppy. Marco was able to disarm him easily, then kicked him on the chest and, this time, Ace fell.
Back on the ground, Ace remained there, painting hard, arms widened at his side. Marco placed his foot on his chest and the sword at his neck. The hatred was back on Ace’s eyes, but there was something else there; not admiration, of course, but the idea of having miss something vital.
“You’re good,” Marco said. “Great, even. I rarely meet someone so young and already so ready for a fight. But you lack two things.”
“Something said me you’re going to illustrate them for me.”
Marco ignored him. “Discipline and tecnique. This secondo ne can be taught easily: I don’t know how you had been trained until now, but you definitely knew the basic. So you can learn. About the first one…” The tip of the sword brushed a little Ace’s neck. “Do you want to live or die?”
“What kind of questioni s that?” Ace replied.
“Well, then.” Marco nodded and gave back the sword to Hannyabal. “I do expect to have everything I ask for my training ready. And also, no shakles during my job. If you want to keep him chained at night, fine by me, but as long as he’s with me, I need freedom.”
Hannyabal nodded: he was impressed by the fight.
Marco turned to Ace again, who was slowly stood up, using his elbow as leverage. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He didn’t wait for any witty remarks.
Marco had asked, and gained, a private space for him to train Ace. Magellan was more than eager to provide him, probably to keep Ace very far from trouble in his school. Marco had arrange the space with things that might be useful, and was now waiting for Ace. It was just after sunrise, and the light was still light.
With his surprise, Ace walked calmy in his direction as the time Marco had requested him too. He had a scold on his face, but his postured his relaxed, arms freely dangling at his side. His shoulder slumped a little as he spotted Marco, but his head was high.
“Was this your doing?” he demaned. “They refused me breakfast.”
“You can have your stomach full while training, it’ll make you sick,” Marco pointed out. “You can have your meal once we finish here.”
“I can’t train with an empty stomach.”
Marco’s expression didn’t chance. “What I told you yesterday about discipline? You need to learn to take instruction, your bodies or your comannders. Not following discipline may kill you in battle.”
Ace snorted. “Following orders from incompeted commanders might have killed me in battle.”
Marco smiled. “Do you think am I incompetent?”
At first, Ace didn’t answer. He scrutinized Marco from head to toe, judgining him, then shook his head. “I think you’re an ass.”
“But a competendo ne.” Marco laughed. “Put this.”
He made Ace wore the full armor of the gladiator, alongside with the shield and the sword. It wasn’t hot as it should, and Marco chose the sunrise because he didn’t want Ace to get too tired soo. But he knew ti wouldn’t been enought to keep Ace by training.
“Now start running until I tell you to stop.”
“Run? With this thing on?”
“Discipline, Ace. Discipline.”
With a snort, Ace started run. One thing Marco noticed as he observed him running around, was that where Ace lacked discipline, he made up with stubborness and dedication. It was clear he had no idea how good that exercice could do for it and he hated every second, but he didn’t want to give Marco the satisfaction of seeing him failing.
That was interesting, and something Marco could work with.
He let him run for all the morning and when finally he told Ace to stop, Ace colampsed on the ground. He took off his armor with no much ceremonies, sweat that made all his skin glint on the sun. At that point, it was almost midday, and the hotness was unbearable.
“This was stupid.”
“It was not, but I don’t expect you to understand yet.”
Ace glared, but didn’t reply.
“Go wash yourself then reach for me in the dining room.”
“Can I finally eat?”
“Yes.”
And Marco enjoyed seeing the look of surprise on Ace’s face when he realized that his daily meal wouldn’t be the usually SBOBBA with cereals, but there would be meat and fruits. His eyes shone and for the first time he looked younger, like a child.
“Can I really eat this?” he asked, then, suspicious. “It’s not like it raises my debts or something?”
“No. I convinced Magellan that, if he wanted to gain money, he needs to spend some first. Eat,” he added, gestured at the table. “You get a couple hours to rest, but I plan some other exercices for this afternoon.”
Ace sat down and put a mounful amount of meat on his mouth. “I may start to like you.”
It didn’t take only one meal with meat for Ace to open up to Marco, and it was a long process, buti t happened. The moment Ace realized how much Marco’s excercized did to his resistance and his muscles, he started to prove a new respect for him. Marco realized Ace was actually good in comprend his opponents’ ability. He only didn’t want to admit it if he realized he was at disvantage. So when Marco started teaching him tecniques, he was actually eager to learn. And he was a fast learner, a smart one, the kind that learn from his mistake and understood the implication even before Marco had to explain them.
After two weeks, Marco was confident Ace could actually beat Doma.
“Why?” Ace asked, one evening they were resting after a good day of training. “Why are you helping me?”
Ace had stated to open a lot with Marco, but their conversation had always been more fights, or generallt friendly bartender. This time, Ace’s expression was serious.
“Because I like you,” Marco answered. “I felt you don’t deserve to die in the arena.”
Ace lifted his gaze and looked straight in Marco’s eyes. “The truth, Marco.”
The fact that Ace could see throught his lie was somehow unnerving from Marco; it meant their relationship is actually deeper than he expected. He sighed.
“Someone asked me to. It interested me enough to try.”
“Someone? Who?”
Marco shook his head. “Never told me his name. Younger, wealthy, a scar on his face.”
“Of course!” Ace released an annoyed snort. “Sabo!”
“Do you know him?”
“Unfortunately.” Ace released another snort, but this time it was accompanied by a soft smile and a shook of his head. “He’s my sworn brother.”
Marco would like to ask more – about their relationship, about how they had come to that. But he wouldn’t risk pressing more in that blossoming friendship, not if Ace wasn’t ready to share willingly. He was happy, though, that he trusted him enough to reveal him about the mysterious stranger.
“But I didn’t lie before,” Marco added. “I really like you.”
Ace nodded, not looking at him. “You’re not so bad too. Sorry if I called you an ass, but, to my defence, you looked like one.”
Marco laughed. -
.
After being separated from Mauvin, Alric was dragged to Sir Tibil’s tent, which operated as General Quartier of the Northern Imperial Army. He stood there, hands tied behind his back, two soldiers flaked at his side, while Sir Tibil didn’t pay him any attention, too busy giving orders to his Captains and clerks in order to settle things now that the siege of Drondil Fields ended.
At first, Alric tried to follow the flow of the discourse, and relaxed when Sir Tibil confirmed no one inside the fortress would be armed and that they could send supplies and doctors inside to check on the wounded. But as the hours passed, the adrenaline dropped and the standing position made Alric’s legs hurt. At that point, he just wanted to lie down somewhere and close his eyes.
When, finally, Sir Tibil dedicated his attention to him, it was clear the man had no idea what to do with him: he scrutinized Alric from head to toe, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Then he sighed. Alric wondered if he would be executed on the spot.
“I sent dispatches to Aquesta for further orders,” Sir Tibil said, then. “I imagine Sir Breckton or Lord Ballentyne will join us, or even Regent Ethereld. Until that, you stay here. For your own safety, too.”
Alric found ironic that Sir Tibil was worried about his safety, when it was certain he would be executed in few days. Surely they didn’t want him to die before having a great feast about it. Yet, he nodded. The moment he signed the surrender of Melengar, he stopped fighting.
Alric spent the next days locked in Sir Tibil’s tent. The guards had found manacles they used to secure his wrist and ankles so he couldn’t escape – not that he had any intention to, but they didn’t trust him, or at least they wanted to give a clear idea he wasn’t more than a war prisoner now. The iron chains were heavy and hurt his skin, but at least gave him some movements.
Nobody spoke to him, and he didn’t ask: the only information he’d like to know was about Mauvin’s destiny, and he was sure they had no idea about it. Voices from the surrounding came to him thanks to the talking and whispered outside.
To his great surprise, he found out about Sir Breckton’s death. Apparently, the man had been killed by an unfortunate accident during the joust, fighting against a new, incredibly knight called Sir Hadrian. Also, Empress Modina married Ethereld, and he was the one they were waiting for orders.
There were insults against him, even if no one dared to enter the tent to vent their frustration at him directly, but they didn’t need to. They only needed to whisper enough near the tent to him to hear. They particularly enjoyed talking about the fact that, voices said, the witch of Melengar had been burned on the stake on Wintertide. Without the protection of the dark magic, Melengar fell.
Alric didn’t want to believe it, but it was hard not to. He hadn’t had news about Arista in months, she’d been seen in Ratibor for the last time before disappearing. The idea the Empire caught and executed her wasn’t so far-fetched. Hoping was pointless, yet he couldn’t force himself not to. There was nothing else to do at that point.
Five days after the surrender of Melengar, the Northern Army moved. Alric hadn’t received the visit of anyone, and he believed no one of the head of the Empire had actually come to Drondil Fields, they had just sent orders for the army to return. Sir Tibil would leave a contingent there to control the situation until the new governor and the Empress would decide how to organize the new province.
Alric was put in a dark, covered carriage used to transport prisoners, and his chains secured to the seat, the door locked. He was almost surprised the carriage was a closed one: he expected the Empire to parade him publicity and had everyone look at him as an example. That was what he would have done in their place.
They still parade him, of course, only in a more reserved way. When they reached Aquesta, the army marched elegantly and united in the crowded main street towards the Imperial Palace. Alric’s carriage was among the parade, around the ending, along with the very few treasures the Imperialist had stolen from Drondil Fields.
People cherish the returning soldiers, gathered to celebrate them, and after Wintertide and the imperial marriage, there was happiness around.
Alric started at the hard sound of something crashing against his carriage, and understood someone had thrown a rock at it. That first gesture spurred the anger of the crown, who started screaming insults in his direction. With a deep breath, Alric forced himself to ignore them, straightening his back and fixing his gaze in front of him.
Soon enough, his attention was lured by something more important than petty insults. In the main square just in front of the palace gate, stood a platform for execution, where two people had been recently burned. Their bodies were now reduced to only crumbled, dark and dry bodies, horribly twisted in the agony of death, burned chains still keeping them in a standing position around the pole.
The bodies were so disfigured it was impossible to distinguish who the condemned were, but Alric’s mind supplied it for him. He was sure, deep down, that he was looking at his sister’s dead body. The one that had no hands anymore, and not because of the fire.
He managed to resist until the ceremony for the victorious return of the army was complete; but once they locked him in one of the cells in the prison tower, he crumbled unceremoniously on the floor and cried.
Two days later, Emperor Ethereld came to visit him.
Alric had met him before, during the Wintertide feasts he’d spent in Aquesta with his family, and even after being crowned king. Ethereld was old, ugly, and under his polite surface boiled the violence of the warrior used to gruesome fights. Now that he was Emperor, that violence was only tempered by his gloating expression and his fine clothes, but it was still there.
With his dirty clothes, which hadn’t been changed since his surrender almost two weeks before, his unkempt beard and bloody eyes, the face still stained with the remainder of his tears, and sitting down in the straw bed, Alric looked nothing more than a mir begging at the street’s corners.
He didn’t care. His sister, the only family that he’d left, died. Mauvin, his best friend, was on his way to be executed for treason against the church, if it hadn’t already happened. He lost his kingdom for real this time. His pride wouldn’t bring back any of this. Deep down, he felt it was his pride that brought everyone to this.
However, he acknowledged Ethereld’s presence with only a slight turn of his head, but he didn’t stand up, even less knelled down. If he had to die because of his treachery, he would be that until the last moment.
While the guards seemed offended by his attitude, Ethereld didn’t mind. He reserved him only a quick glance before nodding.
“I’m sorry it comes to this, my boy,” he said. “I know your father well, you know. We didn’t get along, but-”
“Cut the crap,” Alric interrupted him. “There is no need for diplomacy anymore.”
“Very well.” Ethereld didn’t look please by the interruption, but he wasn’t good in diplomacy too. “You’re a lucky fellow. If it was for me, I would have burned you in front of everyone as we did with the others.”
The mention of his sister’s execution made Alric’s fist clenched in boiling rage.
“But I was convinced to let it go, for the sake of peace around the Empire.” He snorted, clearly displeased by the situation. “But I still confirm your execution, which is to carry out immediately. Poison or sword, you choose.”
Using his own hands as leverage, Alric stood up to face Ethereld. His hair had grown up a little, and he moved it aside to free his neck, tilting his head a little. He felt tears on his eyes again, but didn’t do anything to hide them.
“And make it quick.”
Ethereld had already the hand on the hilt of his sword, when a squire appeared on the hallway, painting for air. “Your Imperial Majesty!” he almost screamed, performing a deep bow. “Archibishop Saldur required your presence immediately.”
“Tell Sauly I’ll be there in a minute.”
“I really apologize,” the squire said, and he trembled a little. “He said it’s the utmost importance and it regards the Earl of Chadwick and the division of the Melengar Province.”
At the mention of Ballentyne, Ethereld twisted his tongue. He threw a look at Alric and at the guards, as he was trying to decide if let anyone else carry the execution. In the end, he shook his head.
“You’re a lucky fellow,” he commented, and left.
As Alric saw the door locked again, he didn’t feel lucky at all. Death was still the only possible outcome for him, with the difference that he had to wait again for it, while his mind would play for him the image of his head severed as he waited for Ethereld’s return.
With a sigh, he was about to sit down again and wait, then the door busted open, startling him.
“Come on, hurry.”
Alric blinked: the man in front of him was Hadrian Blackwater, yet he wasn’t him. Gone were his three swords, alongside his sloppy aspect. Now he looked like a knight, with a clean haircut, clean face, and expensive clothes.
Since Alric wasn’t moving, Hadrian grabbed him by the arm and dragged him, outside the cell, along the hallway, and Alric was so surprised he let being dragged like a doll.
“We don’t have much time. Ethereld will soon find out the decoy.”
“How…” Alric’s mind returned to his captivity ad Drondil Fields, the voices he’d heard then. “You killed Breckton? You work for the Imperialist now?” Now he was trying to resist at Hadrian’s pull.
“No and no.” Hadrian did not stop, as he pushed him into a trap door just at the bottom of the prison tower. “It’s too long to explain.”
He followed him and closed it over their head: they found themselves in another prison, with a row of cells. Unlike the tower, the smell here was worse, the sense of oppression given the complete lack of windows was almost unbearable. That place smelled of sweat and blood and death.
Only a small lantern illuminated the area, but it was enough for Hadrian to orientate himself: he opened the door of a cell and found a tunnel carved inside. Before walking inside, Hadrian sighed.
“I tried to save your sister. I failed. I’m sorry.”
Those words came out with difficult, as Hadrian was trying to resist crying.
Alric found out he believed him. He hadn’t had news of Riyria since he’d send them to stop Merrick Marius’ plan against Delgos. Since it failed, Alric was somehow convinced they had died, because in his mind only death would have stopped his miracle workers. But he saw them as mere humans, that tried and failed, and somehow it relaxed him.
The tunnel was brought outside the palace, in the courtyard below where the stables were. The exit was neatly covered by brushes and a guard stood protective at its side. With a better look, Alric realized it wasn’t a guard at all, but Royce dressed as one.
There was relief in his face as he saw Hadrian, then it turned in a frown when he realized he wasn’t alone. Between the two members of Riyria passed a silent conversation, that years of partnership allowed.
“I only manage to grab another uniform,” Royce said. “We don’t have the time for another one, Merrick is looking for me and I have… you know.”
“Give it to him,” Hadrian stated shortly. “I’ll remain.”
“You’re not serious,” Royce replied, rolling his eyes as he didn’t believe him. Hadrian’s expression didn’t change, and Royce’s frown deepened. “It’s too big for him.”
“Make it works.”
“And then?” Royce demanded. “Melengar fall. Arista died. There’s nothing more we can do.”
“If he stays here, they’ll execute him.”
“And what do you think it’ll happen to you? Especially if they understand you free him, something I see as very probable. And Merrick could use you-”
“He wouldn’t.” Hadrian’s expression was serious. “Listen, I know you don’t understand. But I have to stay. Modina is in danger, now more than ever, and I want to try to save her at least. But this is my problem. I won’t ask any more from you and I won’t pretend you come back for me. Go, take Gwen and disappear where Merrick can’t find you.”
“So this is a farewell?” Royce spat. “Gaunt is dead and now you’ll prefer being suicidal?”
In the middle of that conversation, Alric felt like an intruder. He didn’t care they talked about him as it wasn’t present, or like it was luggage – at that point, he cared little about anything. But clearly there was something going on between them and the long history of their partnership was a lot more than what the legends said about Riyria.
“I’m sorry, and thank you for everything,” Hadrian said. His expression showed regret and sorrow, but still, he didn’t move.
Royce released an exasperated sigh. He shoved on Alric’s arms a bundle of clothes which, he realized, were an imperial guard uniform. “Put this on.” Then, he turned one last time to Hadrian and affirmed, “I’ll be back. Even if you don’t deserve it.”
With an affectionate smile, Hadrian nodded and disappeared back on the tunnel.
Alric dressed up, happy to get rid of his dirty clothes. As Royce anticipated, they were too big for him; they arranged it with ropes so at least they felt a little better around his arms and legs, then Royce went to fetch two horses.
Nobody questioned the two guards that left the palace. Usually, criminals tried to enter, not exit, and the simple sight of the symbol of Novron and the color of the uniform were enough to make the surveillance sloppy. Royce kept a slow pace until they reached one of the city’s gates. Then, he spurred his horse into a gallop and Alric followed, as Aquesta disappeared at their back.
They walked all day and even a good portion of the night, Royce in front, and Alric followed his direction without protesting, as he had no idea where they were. They stopped only to have their horses drank a little and once Royce made a quick escapade to a farm to steal some clothes for Alric. They weren’t perfect, and they remembered Alric the time he’d been kidnapped, but they’re his size. From the guard uniform, he only kept the sword.
Royce was silent all the time, as he rode in front of him, and Alric didn’t disturb him despite the number of questions he had in his mind. Only when Royce decided the horses were too tired to continue, and they made a little camp hidden in the tree around a small water pond, Alric dared to open his mouth.
“So?”
“So what?”
“What happened to you?”
“You lost the war because of Merrick, as I said you would.” Royce wasn’t looking at him, too busy to arrange the camp, and checked the surrounding for any sign of danger. “He tricked us, made us sabotage Drumindor so Delgos could be invaded.”
“It was your doing?”
Royce ignored him. “When we returned, we found out Arista and Gaunt was held in Aquesta and Hadrian tried to free them, failing spectacularly, as you see. And that’s about it.”
“What now?”
It was clearly a question about the future, but Royce decided to ignore it. “I’ll take the first turn of the guard, so I suggest you to sleep.”
The next morning, Royce shook Alric to wake him up. It was almost sunrise, but in the dim light Alric understood better their location, the silhouette of the Frendal Durant of Glouston visible in the horizon. His stomach grumbled and he rubbed his eyes to wake up.
“I got something to eat.” Royce pointed out at a small package placed at Alric’s side. “I also let you a knife and a blanket. If you go in that direction,” and he pointed out north, “you should find the Galewyn in two days. I suggest you to cut your beard and overall keep the hood on.”
Only then, Alric noticed Royce had already saddled his horse.
“Where are you going?”
“We depart way from here,” Royce replied. “I have other plans, which involved being as far as possible from Warric and Melengar. From now on, you’re on your own.”
But what about me, Alric was about to ask, and stopped. In the years Riyria had worked for him, he’d always considered them not quite friends, but at least loyal servants of his kingdom. Yet, he paid them for their service. It wasn’t surprising Royce wasn’t inclined to work without retribution, and Alric had nothing left to spare.
So he nodded. “Thank you.”
Royce acknowledged it with a nod of his head, before mounting and leaving without a last look.
Alone in the vastness of the land of a foreign kingdom, with the only sound of his horse movements, Alric had finally the time to reflect upon his situation. When Hadrian had come from him, everything happened so fast Alric hadn’t thought about the consequence of his escape.
What now?
He lay down, looking at the sky as its blue became lighter and lighter, with his hands below his head, and realized he had no idea what to do with his life. Royce had indicated him the way to return to Melengar, but what was there for him? The Pickerings might be still his allies, as they were against Braga, but Alric found himself upset at the idea of asking them for help.
Objectively speaking, Mauvin’s destiny wasn’t Alric’s fault. The church had asked retribution about the seret’s death even before the war’d started, and it was Alric’s decision to reject their request entirely. Yet, he couldn’t help but felt guilt about his best friend. If he would have been a better king, they would have won the war and Mauvin wouldn’t be forced to surrender to the church’s judgment.
Other nobles might still be loyal to him, but now that the war ended, Alric doubted they would be inclined to shield him, especially if they received the forgiveness of the Empress. And most of his people might actually be happy, since they believed in Novron.
Alone as he was, Alric wondered if there was something worth fighting for. He wanted his kingdom back, his father’s kingdom, the Essendon’s kingdom. He had no idea what to do: he was a kid, crowned too early and not ready for a coming war.
His stomach grumbled again, but he didn’t stand up. There was a brush of berries just next to his head, so he moved his hand to collect them.
Alric woke up the next morning, started by a sudden sound next to him. With his eyes still foggy by the sleep, he frantic searched his sword with his hand, until with relief, he met the familiar touch of the hilt.
“That was pathetic,” Royce’s voice came from behind him. As usual, the thief managed to slip soundlessly around people. “You’re in the run, remaining in the same place for so long is basically suicide. At least put on some defense. I could have you killed in at least three different manners before you wake up.”
“What… what are you doing here?” Alric asked, his mind still confused for the sudden waking up. “You said…”
“I know.” Royce sounded displeased. “But someone convinced me you’re going to die without my help and that I can’t let it happen. So I come back and luckily you were stupid enough not to move.”
Unaware, Alric smiled. “This someone must be very convincing.”
“Oh, she is.”
“She?”
This time, Royce didn’t supply any explanation. He checked Alric’s horse and also Alric’s condition with a critical eye.
“You could have at least cut your beard as I suggested.”
“I don’t have a mirror.”
Royce pointed at the pond. “You have.”
Alric looked at it with a disgusted look: the water was so muddy it made it almost impossible to see, and the wind moved the surface, making the image floating. Then he looked at the knife at his side.
“You have no idea how to shave by yourself, haven’t you?” Royce realized.
Lowering his gaze, Alric shook his head. He never had to, at the castle he had people doing it for him. He had people doing everything for him, even during the siege, he didn’t have to dress or shave or cook for himself. Sure, the situation was harsher, but not enough for the king to stop being served. Royce’s stare made it seem shameful.
With a snort, Royce took the knife from him, knelled down, and grabbed his face.
“Stay put.”
With the corner of his eyes, Alric could see the edge of the blade that brushed his skin as Royce shaved his beard. Alric wondered how many people had Royce killed with a knife like that. But he knew how to use one because he didn’t cut Alric once. When he finished, he stood up, gave back Alric his knife and mounted his horse.
“Let’s go.”
Royce lent him to a small village, and they left the horses tied up alone in the forest before walking insde by foot; Alric wasn’t able to orientate himself enough to understand the direction but definitely they were still in Warric and not heading towards Melengar at all. What now? Alric wanted to asked Royce, but didn’t dare to.
“Can’t we enter from the front door?” Alric asked once he noticed Royce was being very circumspect and had every intention to enter in a room at the first floor by climbing the façade.
“No, I don’t want people to know we’re here.”
“I’m not sure I can follow.”
Royce released a small sigh of irritation, but said nothing. He disappeared inside the room and returned a minute later, bringing a rope with him. The way he moved around never cease to amaze Alric; he was less amazazed when he realized Royce’s plan as he tied the rope in sort of a harness around Alric’s torso to help me during the climb.
He couldn’t believe he actually managed to do it, and crumbled on the floor as soon as he stepped over the window, panting hard. Royce landed next to him.
“He’s here. Happy?”
Alric turned to see who Royce was talking to, and spotted a beautiful calain woman smiling sweetly at him. He recognized her as the owner of The Rose and The Thorn, Riyria’s lair, and his mind went back to Medford, asking himself how much of it still stood after the war.
“Your Majesty,” she greeted him, and, funny enough, Alric felt shame at being called that. “I’m Gwen.” He turned to Royce again. “Do you plan to leave now? Because Mercy is sleeping already.”
Royce frowned a little. “No, we’ll wait the morning,” he said at last. “But I just hope this delay won’t cause us any problem. I fear Merrick may be on our tracks already.”
Alric understood he was the delay. He was a burden with no purpose anymore.
Something licking his face woke him up. He startled and released a small yelp.
“Mr Rings!” a voice called, and the animal – a rat, a big squirrel, a raccoon? – jumped out of Alric’s bed and rished towards the voice. It was Mercy, the little girl Gwen had talked about the day before. Alric had noticed her little figure sleeping in one of the beds, but he wasn’t introduced to her yet. As soon as Mercy spotted he was awake, she hid a little behind the bed, eyeing at Alric with wide and curious eyes.
Alric made a little, reassuring smile and looked around: Royce and Gwen were nowhere to be seen. He stood up, brushing his face a little to cancel the last remnants of the sleepness and remained surprised at the fact he didn’t have the beard anymore, before realizing Royce had shaved him the day before.
Dim light arrived from the outside, and Alric leaped out the window to see which time of the day it was: he cringed when he realized it was barely sunrise. Gwen and Royce stood below the window and they stopped talking as soon as they spotted him. For some reason, Alric was sure they were talking about him.
Without a word, Royce climbed back into the room. “We’re leaving.”
“And what about breakfast?”
Ignoring him, Royce scooped up Mercy in his arms; the girl had one arm around the raccoon’s body and out the other around Royce’s neck. Alric hadn’t asked, but it was clear to him now, even if it was something unthinkable just a few days before, that Gwen and Mercy were Royce’s family. Somehow, seeing it made Alric’s loneliness even more deepen.
Royce climbed down, leaving Alric alone in the room, with only the rope to use to follow him. Alric had the clear impression Royce pretended from him to do it by himself. At least, if he broke his neck in a fall, he would have resolved most of his problems.
They rode in silence for hours, and they stopped only half an hour to eat something. The only conversation was for Mercy’s benefit, and only Gwen took part in it. Alric and Royce had their own horse, while Gwen rode with Mercy. Royce was on the front, leading the way; Gwen stayed mostly at his side, or just behind, while Alric ended the party. He was looking around, trying to understand where they were.
Of course, Royce was the first one to hear the horses’ hoof, even before they saw them, coming on the opposite direction. It was a group of five riders, and from that distance, Alric couldn’t definite who they are.
“Imperialists,” Royce suppled for him.
“Do you think they’re looking for us?” Gwen asked.
Royce threw a look at Alric, then shook his head. “I prefer to think they are until proved otherwise. We need to get outside the street.”
Unfortunately, they were facing an area with two few bushes and trees and, from that distance, the other party noticed their presence; if they moved, they would look suspicious, but they couldn’t afford getting to close to him. They didn’t know how recognizable they were.
“Go,” Royce said to Gwen, guiding her horse on the right side. “Gallop as fast as you can and don’t look back. Don’t stop.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll distract them. Don’t worry, I’ll find you.”
She smiled softly. “Of course.”
They both turned to look at Alric, and he realized he was waiting for instruction. “Go with them,” Royce ordered, before spurring his horse and heading directly towards the party of Imperialists that, at that point, had spotted them.
With a nod, Alric guided his horse to follow Gwen’s. Soon after, they were racing towards the lower brushed and snow, the run lifted splatted of dirty snow on their legs. Soon enough, they noticed two riders following them. Alric didn’t miss the slight frown of concern that appeared on Gwen’s face, but she didn’t slow, as she kept the reins with a hand and hugged a scared Mercy at her chest with the other.
No, Alric thought. Royce was just distracted by the others, but couldn’t keep five riders at once. He wasn’t dead, Alric still wanted to believe in his miracle workers.
But he realized that he’d envied Royce a little, the idea he still had a family when Alric had lost all of it without being able to do a single thing. Now, he felt he didn’t want the war to turn it into something ugly and, if he didn’t have anyone else, it didn’t mean Royce had to face the same fate.
He pulled the rein and halted his horse to a stop. He turned it so he would face the riders now, and pulled out the sword: it wasn’t his own, and it appeared light in his hand.
“Keep running!”
In Alric’s mind, there was no way he could take two riders by himself. He wasn’t a good swordsman, and he barely knew how to do it on a horse and without a shield or armor. It was lucky the Imperialists hadn’t armors too, but it was barely the point. At least he hoped to slow them a little.
With sheer luck, Alric managed to avoid the first slash of one of the Imperialists and stabbed his horse with his sword. The horse shook its entire body and the movement made Alric lose the grip on his sword. But then the horse collapse and brought its rider with him. The other came at Alric and he realized he had no way to defend himself: he stood there, ready for the blow, when a rock hit the horse’s head and the movement stopped the rider for a second.
It was enough: Alric jumped from his horse and crashed against the imperialist. They both fall on the ground, but Alric had the upper hand, as his opponent had lost the sword and hit his head with the fall. Alric had with it the knife and, without thinking, he took it off and stuck it in the opponent’s neck. He gurgled, startled, and then stopped moving below him.
Painting, Alric crawled far from him and looked around. Gwen had not listened to him, and she was the one throwing the rock that had saved his life. Now she stood a few meters from her, Mercy grabbing her gown. The other rider’s body was still below his own horse, probably dead too.
He was sure he’d killed men before, if not during the battle or Medford at least during the Galawyn one. Yet, during wars it was different. Men dying like that looked at a lot more like execution, and Alric was sure he ordered and attended some, and never realized what it meant. In some way, yet, he didn’t regret any of it.
Royce trotted towards them in anxiety, a bloodied dagger in his hand, and relaxed visibly at the sign of the two fallen riders. He jumped to check the situation, reserving only a surprise look at Alric. For good measurement, he cut the throat of the fallen riders, then cleaned the dagger and hid it before getting near to Gwen and Mercy.
With trembling legs, Alric stood up. He verified his horse was fine and, keeping it with the reins, he joined the rest of the group. Gwen had Mercy in her arms and was cuddling her. Mercy was looking at Royce, who was keeping his distance.
“When I was upset,” Alric murmured, “my father used to take me on his shoulder and walk me around. The world seemed so small from there.” A flow of sadness passed through Alric, realizing that he hadn’t thought about his father for years, too busy with other things. He still missed him. “Sure, my father was gigantic, and when I was a child he looked-”
“Shut up,” Royce said, and Alric frowned.
“I was just-”
“Shut up,” Royce repeated. Still, he moved with uncertainty and took Mercy in his arms.
Since their meeting with the Imperialists, Royce became more prudent, or more paranoid. In any case, he forbade them to reach any town or village. They remained far away from roads, riding only on forests or very far camps, and there they slept despite the cold weather. They didn’t meet many people around, which was their objective, and they didn’t have to worry again about being caught.
At first, Royce was the only one to venture in town for stealing supplies or other things that might be useful during their travel. But after a couple of days, he invited Alric to come with him, despite complain about the lack of abilities to move soundless.
“You’re worse than Hadrian,” he grumbled, mostly to himself. Alric glared at him as he followed between the darkness towards a building that looked like a tavern, of course closed for the night.
Alric observed with curiosity as Royce picked the lock.
“Every lock needs different tools and different techniques,” Royce said. “With doors, it’s usually easier. The trick is to apply a small pressure against the pin…”
“Sound like you’re trying to teach me.”
“Because I am.”
“I don’t plan to become a thief.”
Royce finished opening the lock. “I’d like to remind you you’re a wanted man. As long as you’re alive, the Empire can’t be assured Melegar won’t revolt again. And they won’t be happy about your escape.” With prudence, he entered the tavern and looked for the pantry. “Besides, I hope you didn’t plan to keep along like a straw puppy for long.”
“Of course not!” Alric replied, crossing his arms, offended. He’d realized he was a stranger from Royce’s little family and, most time, he felt out of place.
But the question in his mind was always the same: what next?
“We’re almost there,” Royce announced.
Alric glared around: they were up north, norther than Melengar; a thick layer of snow covered everything and the temperature was pretty cold. Despite the whiteness of the surrounding, it was clear nothing was around: the remainings of a destruction were still clear by the fact that only lower stone wall remained, and the few trees were dark, as they had been burned.
“Where?” Alric commented. “There is nothing here.”
“Once, there was a village called Dahlgren.”
It was a familiar name for Alric, who narrowed his eyes trying to remember it. “Wait! Wasn’t it…?”
Royce nodded, even if Alric hadn’t finished the sentence. Funny, there were many way to end it: the Empress’ birth place, the town where she had slain the beast. For Alric, it was the place of Fanen’s death.
“Why here? What’s here?”
For a long time, Royce didn’t answer. Not until they reached the edge of the river, and the tall tower that stood in the middle of the cascade was visible. Mercy watched it with wide, incredulous eyes. Gwen appeared as she expected it.
“That.”
It was an incredible sight, but Alric didn’t feel prone to sightseeing. “Okay, it looked impregnable, but also…”
“It’s the only safe place,” Royce said. His hand lingered now on Gwen’s arm, and she turned to smile softly at him. “Here Merrick couldn’t touch us.”
“Surely no one can find us in this Maribor’s forget land.”
“Oh, no.” Royce shook his head. “I’m pretty sure Merrick will find us soon enough. I’m almost surprised he didn’t have soldiers wait here.”
Shocked, Alric asked, “then why?”
“Because, even if he found us, he couldn’t get inside.”
Avempartha wasn’t a comfortable place to live in. It wasn’t created to be a house and it lacked of any furniture useful for a person, let aside an entire family. In the first month of their stay, Royce and Alric made daily escapades to provide what they needed. It wasn’t an easy task, but Royce felt relaxed now that he was sure Gwen and Mercy were safer from Merrick’s grasp and brought Alric into some very hard thieving mission, where they were able to obtain supplies and furniture.
The result of their escapade was the creation of an almost complete and functional kitchen, a provided pantry and the possibility to cultivate something, a collection of clothes, towels, sheets for the ordinary sleeping and bathing. It was still far from a comfortable home, but it was better than the start.
“I’m returning to Aquesta,” Royce announced one evening, after they had managed to hunt down a deer and were feasting with its meat. “I need to save Hadrian.”
Gwen nodded, as she expected that. Alric had no doubt they had already spoken about it; he’d found them whispering and stopping the moment Royce noticed his presence, something that happened always because Royce had insane hearing. Sure, it was understandable since Alric now knew Royce was a mir, but it was still unnerving.
“I don’t expect to stay away long,” Royce continued. “But inside Avempartha you’re safe.”
“I know,” Gwen replied, and she sounded a little bit annoyed. A gaze passed between them, making clear for Alric that there was something they didn’t agree on. He didn’t inquire: in some way, they remembered Alric they own parents, and he hadn’t the habit to intrude in their affair.
“Shall I come?” he asked instead. It’s not like he had any plan for his future; the time spending with them just made him longing for ordinarily more, but that ordinarily didn’t exist anymore in Melengar. Melengar didn’t exist anymore.
“To do what?” Royce replied.
“I don’t know. I was just…” His voice trailed off. He just couldn’t stay there anymore, right? He always had the feeling that Royce didn’t want him around and barely tolerated him because Gwen had asked him too. It was one of the reasons he bore Royce’s lessons, in order to show him he wasn’t such a burden.
“No,” Royce said. “Gwen may need a hand while I’m away.”
Alric nodded. He’d always considered Royce and Hadrian as loyal servants, and this chance of their relationship unnerved him a little. But Royce was old enough to be Alric’s father and the fact he was trying to teach him something made Alric’s heart warm somehow. Gwen’s attitude towards him was very motherly too, despite the fact she still called him by his title, and Alric hadn’t feel so young in years.
But he didn’t belong with them. He had a family, and he lost it. What could he do about it?
“Do you need help, Your Majesty?”
Gwen reached for him in the room that was arranged as a training room for Alric; that was, at least, Royce’s idea, who had left him instruction to learn to open more difficult locks and climb walls.
At the moment, the hardest duty for Alric was to brush his hair. He hadn’t had them so long since he’d became king, and he never took care of them by himself.
“You should stop calling me that,” Alric said, but let her take care of his hair. Once, his mother had done it. “I’m not a king anymore.”
“You may have a kingdom anymore, but it didn’t change who you are.” Then, she sighed. “I’d like to tell you everything will be fine, but…”
Alric realized she meant her seer power. In a way, he was scared to ask her about it. What if his future told him his life would be without any meaning, or worse, that it would be very short. What if she saw his death by the Imperialists’ hands?
“What do you see in my future?” he asked, turning at her.
Gwen smiled softly, and caressed his har.
“I can guarantee you this, Alric. You’ll be happy.” Her expression fell. “But you’re right. You won’t be king anymore.”
Two weeks later, Royce returned. He was angry and Hadrianless.
“That idiot!” was the first time exclaimed once he stepped inside Avempartha.
Explanations had to wait, because Mercy missed his father and pretended he spent some time with her and Mr Ring, playing in Alric’s training room. Once she tired enough to be manageable, Royce’s humor had soothed a little, but not enough for him to not insult his best friends.
This time, Alric was permitted to participate at their discussion.
“What did he do?” Gwen asked, and sounded tired. Alric had the impression they had had similar discussions about Hadrian in the past.
“He refused to listen to me,” Royce grumbled. “He thinks he can make a difference, staying there. Helping Modina, he said. I can’t believe the entire fiasco with Gaunt and Arista didn’t teach him anything.”
The mention of his sister’s name made Alric flinch.
“He’s planning a revolt, can you believe it?” Royce continued. “He had someone unhappy with the Empire, and he’s trying to contact the remaining the nationalist in Delgos and Calis. He’s a prisoner in the palace! And the least inconspicuous person I know. Insanely ability in fighting can’t save him from treason. I’m pretty sure Merrick is keeping him alive only because he hopes to use him against him, and he doesn’t understand.”
“That’s why you need to help him,” Gwen stated, serious.
“No. Not this time.” Royce shook his head. “I know you talked about the death of the person I love most, but it already happened. I saved you, right?”
“And it made me the happiest woman in the world.” She smiled and placed her hand on his shoulder. “This isn’t about my prevision. This is about our family. Do you realize we can’t stay here forever?”
“Not forever. Only until Merrick dies.”
Gwen glared at him. “And how much time it’ll pass? I know you could never kill him. This is the life you want for us? For Mercy?”
“To be honest? Yes. That’s all I always asked for. You, our child, very far away from everything and everyone.”
“And do you think Mercy will be happy? I…” She sighed. “I’ve abandoned her for long, and even if I felt I had no choice, I regret it. She’s still young. She can have a nice childhood.”
“She has two parents. It’s more than we had.”
Alric felt he was listening to a private conversation he had nothing to do about. He stood up. “I shall leave.”
“No. Stay,” Gwen said. “What do you think about this?”
Royce glared at him and Alric felt bad about being interrogated. He sighed. “If there is someone that can overthrow the empire, it’s my miracle team,” he said. “But I don’t have a family to lose anymore, so I don’t know.”
He didn’t wait for an answer from them and this time, he left. The thought of climbing relaxed him, so when Royce reached for him, he was two meters above the floor, grabbed to the wall. He climbed down, with nothing of Royce’s grace.
“I’ll help Hadrian,” Royce stated.
“Gwen convinced you?”
“She knew how to be persuasive.” He eyed Alric. “What about you? You know, the Empire is pretending you were secretly executed, so they can’t search for you directly. You’ll have more space for moving around, even if I’m sure they’re looking for you. We may need a revolt in Melengar, and you may get your kingdom back.”
Alric brushed away the sweat from his forearm. “How are things there?”
“From what Hadrian told me, Ethereld gave the Province of Melengar to Ballentyne.”
“I hate him,” Alric commented. He could image how much Ballentyne was gloating, especially considering the little trick Alric had played on him when the idea of the heir of Novron was just a legend.
“You’re not the only one. Ethereld did it to shut him up, but most of the nobles retained their land back so Ballentyne’s power is limited. He had to share it with the Lanaklin, the Jerl, the Reds, the Extereds and, fo course, the Pickerings.”
“So it didn’t change much for them, just that now they had Ethereld as king instead of me.”
As much as Alric dreamt about being the king of Melengar again, he felt he couldn’t ask anymore to his nobles. They looked actually better without him. A part of him feared to go to them and being welcomed with angry looks, realizing they didn’t mind his death at all.
And there’s Gwen’s prophecy too.
What next?
“Mauvin is dead,” Royce stated then.
Alric knew it, deep down, but hearing it was different, just like it was with his sister’s death. So Leopold didn’t manage to do anything. “They executed him?”
Royce shook his head. “He killed himself before the process.”
That shocked Alric. In his mind, even despite the years of mourning for Fanen’s death, Mauvin was always life itself: bright, loud, happy. A boy like him shouldn’t have been forced to kill himself.
“It can’t be true.”
“They said it was to not bring shame over his family’s name.” Royce shrugged. “But they could have killed him and pretended it was suicide.”
Without thinking, Alric slammed his fist against the wall and ignored the pain it generated. The Empire killed his mother, his father. His sister! And Fanen. Destroyed his kingdom. And, now, Mauvin. They systematically destroyed everything Alric cared about for their gain of power. What now that he didn’t have anything to defend?
“I want them to bleed,” he said. “I want to see the Empire fall and crumble. Saldur, Ethereld, Ballentyne… Luis Guy. I want them dead, possibly horribly. I want them to suffer, bleed, and die.” He looked straight at Royce. “Can you teach me that?”
Royce’s expression was unreadable, but it nodded. “I can.” -
.
“Alric, you have to try and slow down, you’re moving too fast, I can’t get-I can’t grab you. Alric, you’re speeding up! Alric, reach out to me! Alric! Alric!”
Arista dove forward but her hand only touched the air, as his brother eluded her again. He was too far now, towards the light, and not matter how much she stretched her arm, she had no way-
“Alric! Come back to me.”
A hand gripped her shoulder, and Arista turned to see Mauvin just next to him. Her gaze followed his arm as he moved forward and his hand as he reached for Alric’s wrist. As soon as Mauvin’s finger closed around it, Arista pulled back.
The action required much strength to her: she closed her eyes and she gritted her teeth. With one last yank, she felt the opposite pressure snapping. She finally let it go.
“You did it.”
Hadrian’s incredulous and relieved voice welcomed her as she opened back her eyes.
“That was incredible,” Mauvin added, at her side.
In front of her, his brother sat down, eyes widened open, and he was blinking as he didn’t understand what had happened or where he stood. He didn’t say anything. But he was alive, he was breathing, and the wound was healed.
The force of the spell was asking her a toll, and Arista leaned on Hadrian, feeling her body heavy. The adrenaline drained the last of her energy. She turned to Mauvin, who was hurt too, but she had no voice to lure his attention, no opportunity to heal him too.
Before falling asleep, she barely registered the strange, round tattoo on his brother’s bare chest.
“I’ll do it.”
Every head turned to look at Alric, who stood a little on the corner of the room, isolated from the rest of the group. Since he woke up, Mauvin hadn’t managed to speak with him,
“You can’t,” Arista said. “Weren’t you listening? This is about Gaunt being the Heir.”
“Well, he isn’t going to do it.” Alric stepped forward and pointed at Gaunt, who pressed his lips together and moved his eyes around. “He just said so. Someone had to do it or we all die here.”
“It doesn’t mean it has to be you.”
“Arista’s right,” Hadrian intervened. “She just heal you from a mortal wound. Take it easy.”
“I’m fine!” Alric replied and gave Mauvin the impression he wasn’t fine at all.
The idea of being the one almost dying out of the entire group probably made Alric eager to prove himself. Looking at his bandaged arm, which Mauvin had difficulty moving, he felt he understood his best friend’s feelings. There was a sort of anger boiling inside himself.
“See, Gaunt?” he said then. “That’s the meaning of being king. You may speak as you want about merit and honor and shit, but when the moment comes, where is your merit? Where is your honor? You have any. Unlike my king.”
Gaunt frown increased, and he swallowed. He looked around, but none of the others had anything to add. On the other hand, Mauvin wasn’t finished.
“So, what are you going to do, oh mighty Heir of Novron? If blood doesn’t matter, then you’re a coward by yourself. The only positive thing out of our doom is that we aren’t going to have him as Emperor.”
“Fine!” Gaunt spat. “I’ll do it.” He slumped on the ground, as his legs failed to sustain him. “Can I least have a last meal?”
Arista nodded and looked at Hadrian, who shrugged. They got what they needed, and a couple of minutes more wouldn’t change it. They were all tired and miserable.
With a slight smile, Mauvin reserved his attention to Alric. Their eyes met for a second, before Alric lowered his gaze, turned his back, and walked away.
At the sound of steps, Alric lifted his gaze to see Arista coming near. She looked tired: her face was pale, her eyes bloodied, with dark circles around it, and her shoulders slopped down as she was forcing herself to be upstand.
Alric knew he should thank her for saving him, yet his voice didn’t come out. There was something wrong with him, even if he couldn’t grasp exactly what the problem was, and that something put him on edge. It wasn’t the anger and disappointment of being hurt, or the sadness of being useless. It was deeper… the feeling he didn’t belong in his body anymore.
“Are you okay?” Arista asked.
He nodded, even if it was a lie.
“Oh, stop sulking,” she said, and her tone was tinkling, happy, a clear pretense. “I’m not going to rub on you what you said to me.”
“What?” Alric blinked.
“You don’t remember? When I was healing you… You told me,” and she counted everything on her finger, “that you were a bad king, that I would have been a better queen and also that you were jealous of me. Ah, and that you’re sorry about it.”
A fond smile was on her face, but Alric frowned. He narrowed his eyes in concentration, and a feeling returned to him: a light, someone calling him, Arista’s voice in the dark… and then a pull on his chest broke his concentration
“I don’t remember,” he said then, shaking his head. “But it is something I could have said. Something I should have said before.”
With a sigh, Arista came near and sat down next to him. “You’re not a bad king, Alric.” She placed a hand on her shoulder. “You tried your best, and you made mistakes, like everyone else. I did mistakes too.”
“Oh, really?” Reluctantly, Alric smirked. “I’ll hold you on this.”
Arista shook her head, a smile on his face. “Don’t make me regret saving you,” she joked, but his face became darker.
“You really did, sister?” he asked. “Because I don’t feel like... I’m alive.”
“What are you talking about? Of course you’re alive.” She placed her hand on his face, then slid down on his chest. “Here. You felt it, don’t you? Your heart is beating.”
Alric felt warm in the spot Arista was touching, and the vibration of the heartbeats resounded more against her palm. He knew she was right, but she was also wrong. He couldn’t explain it to her, though, when he had problems understating it himself.
“You’re right. I’m probably still frightened about what happened.” He took her hand and kept a little in his own. “Better go to see if Gaunt is ready. If he failed, you would have wasted your time saving me.”
The tension kept her body still, as Arista followed Gaunt’s movements inside the Vault. It was hard, when all they had were Royce’s description since the room was too dark for her eyes. The Art was running freely inside her, ready to intervene.
Then everything precipitated. The beast moved and she understood she was about to kill Gaunt. Royce precipitated inside the room, immediately followed by Alric, with Mauvin that yelled behind her at him to stop, and Hadrian that prevented Mauvin to follow too. Arista launched her Art towards the beast, only to understand she had no chance to stop something created like that.
In the light of her vest, and her attempts of reaching for someone, something, in order to gain time for Royce, Gaunt, and Alric to come back safe, made everything frantic. Despite being still tired of the overuse of her Art, she kept her concentration, even if she heard Mauvin’s pained scream behind her. She snapped out of it only when Hadrian shut back the door, shielding them again from the Gwalabryn’s wrath.
“You idiot!” Royce’s voice lured his attention. “Why did you follow me?”
She turned. Gaunt was painting hard, crumbled on the floor, his eyes wide opened and still on the door. His hand touched himself, as to realize he was still in one piece. Royce was standing, hands bloodied, and she glared down at Alric’s laying figure. A pool of blood was spreading below him.
“Alric!” Immediately, she rushed at him, forcing herself to evocate her Art again.
“It’s too late, he’s dead,” Royce stated. “It got him right in the heart while he was trying to save Gaunt.”
“I’m… not…” Alric exhaled, and he was right. His eyes were opened and vigil, and there was still breath on his lips.
At the sound of his voice, Royce blinked, shocked. “You really shouldn’t.”
“Do you want me dead so badly?” Alric released a small chuckle which turned into a bloody cough.
“I just want mortal wounds to be mortal for real.”
Arista ignored their conversation, focused on healing Alric’s slashes. It was easier than before, despite, she had to admit, the situation being even worse. Alric’s chest was almost torn apart from the Gwlarabrin’s attack, and she understood why Royce was so surprised. Yet the edge of the cut closed with easiness under her spell and for all the process Alric didn’t slip from her grip.
Blood covered Alric’s now healed chest, but she frowned again at the tattoo which was in his chest. She had forgotten about it, because she had been too tired before, but now she frowned at it and at the subtle lightly string she could see if she focused on it.
Arista touched them with the point of her fingers, gaining the attention of everyone. She guessed it was strange, because they couldn’t see the strings as she did. She followed the direction they moved and discovered they connected Alric and Mauvin.
He sat down, painting hard, sweat made his pale face shimmering in the dim light of their lantern. Magnus was next to him, a hand on his shoulder, checking his condition.
“What happened to him?” Arista asked. At her side, Alric’s eyes widened in concern.
“No idea,” Magnus answered, his eyes still on Mauvin. “Without any reason he started screaming as a slaughtered pig.”
“I…” Mauvin swallowed to regain back his voice. “It felt like someone stabbed me, but…” He patted his chest and gripped his shirt, as he didn’t believe he was fine.
Arista’s eyes moved again on the golden strings that connected him and Alric. A sudden suspect came into her mind. “Mauvin. Took off your shirt.”
He looked at her perplexed. “Here? In front of everyone?” He smirked. “Kinky.”
“That’s really not the moment for jokes.” She rolled his eyes.
“I was just trying to raise the mood.”
With Magnus’ help, he stood up and opened his shirt. And here it stood, the same tattoo Alric had, and the string entered inside it. It was composed of five dark concentric circles, but other lines connected each circle and formed the stylized symbol of a crowned falcon.
Mauvin noticed the stare on it and lowered his gaze. “What is this?” he asked, to no one, as he brushed with prudence the lines of the tattoo with the tip of his fingers.
“It’s the same Alric has,” Royce commented.
“I… I think it was me,” Arista said. “Before, when I was healing Alric… He was slipping away, but then I heard Mauvin’s voice and maybe…”
“You don’t know for sure?” Hadrian asked.
Arista shook her head. “I’m kind of a self-taught when it comes to the Art. It has to be me, but what it means… I can’t say.”
Alric released a yelp of pain and, at the same time, Mauvin flinched. Royce had just cut a little Alric’s right forearm with his dagger.
“Why?” Alric complained.
“Just testing a theory,” Royce replied, unbothered. “If you’re hurt, Mauvin feels pain too. But only pain.”
“Oh.” Magnus pinched Mauvin’s thigh and both boys winced at the sting.
“Stop it!” Mauvin ordered.
Magnus shrugged. “I wanted to see if works both ways.”
“You should have asked,” Alric stated. He was massaging his left arm. “It hurts since I woke up. I thought it was the result of Arista’s healing, but…” The look of everyone fell on Mauvin’s bandaged wound on his left arm.
“It doesn’t make sense.” Royce frowned. “You should have been dead. Has this tattoo something to do with the fact you somehow survived?” Apparently, Alric’s mysterious survival really bothered him.
“Maybe it was because of Mauvin?” Arista’s eyes were still on the strings. “He shielded Alric somehow?”
“No,” Mauvin said, at Royce and Magnus. “You’re not going to kill me to test your theory.”
“And I died two times already today. I’m done,” Alric added.
Hadrian’s attention moved to Myron. “Do you have any explanation from one of your books?”
“Oh, I, I haven’t checked,” Myron appeared embarrassed. “I was looking more at the history of the Empire. But I can look, if you’d like.”
“I found something,” Myron announced.
Mauvin had almost forgotten about it. After they’d managed somehow to reach Novron’s tomb, things had become frantic and they focused more on their current situation, the horn, and the necessity to return as soon as possible.
And Alric hadn’t risked his life again and the apparently bond between the two of them felt something distant. The tattoo was still there, but overall it didn’t hurt.
Now the party was resting in the big cave after the underground ocean as they retraced their step towards the surface, and Myron reached for them. He and Alric sat next to each other, again comfortable in each other’s presence, and Arista joined them.
“So?” she asked, impatient.
Myron nodded and began his explanation.
“In one of the diaries I found, there was this story about a father that performed a spell on his daughter to save her life. Apparently, he lost all his family from an illness, and the daughter was the only one who remained so, being immune to said illness, he tied his life to hers.”
“That sounds very similar to what Arista did,” Mauvin stated, bus she seemed unconvinced.
“When you said he tied his life…”
“It is very literal.” Myron turned a little the pages of his book. “When the father dies, the daughter does too, because she hasn’t any more ties in the world.” His face saddened a little. “The author of this book actually used this story as an example. You can’t cheat death. And apparently, this necromancer spell was banned by the third Emperor.”
Alric blinked. “When you said necromancer…”
“Ah, yes. The author was convinced the daughter died. The father had no way to cure her, so he waited for her death and then pulled back her soul and sealed it.”
“That is exactly what I did,” Arista stated, and paled. “The only difference is that I tied up Mauvin’s life instead of mine.”
“I died?” Alric looked at both Mauvin and Arista for confirmation.
“It must be confusing for you…” Myron began.
“No.” Alric shook his head. “No, it isn’t. Everything made sense now. That’s why I felt… I don’t belong here anymore. I shouldn’t be here.”
“How is it possible?” Mauvin felt he couldn’t accept the idea of his best friend being dead. Especially when said best friend was breathing in front of him. “He’s here. He felt pain. He even felt my pain.”
“Oh, yes.” Myron went through the book again. “This is actually very interesting. Since the two souls are connected, the dead one used the living one to keep feeling like a human being. The result is that their feelings are connected to each other. Or something like that.”
“Can it be undone? This spell?” Alric asked.
“I… guess so. But then, you’ll die.”
Alric turned to his sister. “But you can try?”
She blinked. “Why… why should I…?”
“I’m not alive, Arista. I’m stealing Mauvin’s life. We need to do something…”
“You’re not stealing anything,” Mauvin stated.
“Haven’t you heard-”
“I heard perfectly.” Mauvin stared straight at Alric’s face. “And, for Maribor’s sake, if all it takes for you to survive is for me to have a tattoo on my chest and feel a little pain if you sprinkle your ankle, I consider it an honest payment.”
“But…” Alric started, his eyes wide and watery.
“By Mar, Alric. I don’t want you to die, is it that hard to understand?” Mauvin turned to Arista. “I forbid you to try anything. If you do, I’ll never forgive you.” He stood up. “Yes, I don’t care if you are the king and the princess. This is my life and it’s for me to decide.”
The outburst had lured the attention of everyone else, that were now looking at them with curious and unconvinced looks. Mauvin shook his head and walked away to avoid any unwanted questions. Alric ran after him soon after.
Without saying anything, he hugged Mauvin tight, his hands clasping the back of his shirt and the head pressing against Mauvin’s chest.
Mauvin didn’t care if they were cheating death. All that mattered was Alric’s breath against his skin, the warmth of his body pressed against his own, and the beating of his heart.
The mood of the party was grim after the entire ordeal with the horn and manduwley. It wasn’t only the fact that Arista’s plan hadn’t work out because of Magnus’ unwilling spell, but the impending sense of doom at being surrounded by the elven army that would kill them all the moment Gaunt lost the battle.
Alric could eve admit the man had grown a little on him, or at least he seemed less insufferable now, yet he was difficult to accept the idea the destiny of the world depended on him beating a three hundred years old elf magician.
“Maybe I should fight instead of Gaunt,” he said, addressing no one in particular. “After all, I can’t die anymore, can I?”
Arista shook her head. “I think it’s something only Gaunt can do. Besides, we don’t know exactly how this soul bond between you and Mauvin works. Maybe there is a limit to the pain Mauvin can take.”
Alric looked at Mauvin, then nodded. “Then, can you put the same spell on Gaunt to shield him during the fight?”
“Gaunt should die before the princess can operate,” Myron remembered him.
“And also, who would like to be Gaunt’s anchor for the rest of his or her life?” Mauvin snickered.
“I guess it should be me, but…” Hadrian didn’t look inclined to accept the situation.
At that point, Alric didn’t add anything. Nor his life nor his death seemed to have any meaning in the world. He realized he didn’t really want to: sure, finding Percepliquis might have been one of his dream, but all his life was supposed to be about was living a quiet, comfortable life.
Later on, after the poor dinner and after Manduwley had taunted them about their future, Alric found himself alone, walking in the creaking snow around the camp, unable to stay still.
A blanket was placed around his shoulder, and Mauvin appeared at his side, with a soft smile on his face.
“I felt you were cold.”
Alric placed the blanket better around his body. “How do you know it was my feeling?”
“It’s different, somehow.” Mauvin shrugged. “Like it is inside me, but not mine. It’s difficult to explain.”
Soul bond, Arista had called it, and it really looked like it. Mauvin didn’t seem bothered by it, but the way he could now feel everything made Alric feel naked in front of him. They’re best friends, so there was little they hid from one another, still…
“You’re not upset about what Manduley said, right?” Mauvin asked. “It’s a jerk.”
“I’m really not.”
The idea of being tortured to death again and again just because he couldn’t die for the elves’ entertainment didn’t scare Alric as he should. He was sure they wouldn’t end up as captives if Gaunt lost. Alric couldn’t see Royce nor Hadrian, and not even Arista, stood up for it. Screw the entire rules about the horn.
“We will fight, right?” At Mauvin’s nod, he added, “I should really have trained more with the sword.”
“You were good, back against the Ghazel. I didn’t know you could fight so well.” Mauvin was so sincere telling that, there was true happiness in the way his eyes shone and his lips bent to a smile. “It was like… fighting with Fanen again…”
But despite his compliments, the reality was that Alric had died. Just like Fanen. Now Alric could understand a little better Mauvin’s eagerness of being his anchor in his life, because, if Alric died too, it would mean Mauvin failed two times. In this way, at least, he could say he’d saved one of them.
“Sorry,” Alric offered.
Mauvin tilted his head a little, looking curiously at Alric. Then, he looked around, to verify no one was near enough to see them. In an instant, he grabbed Alric’s face and kissed him on the lips. Now that they were connected, the feeling was a little bit more overwhelming than Alric expected.
“I’m starting to love the beard,” Mauvin said, brushing a finger through it.
“Maybe you should start growing one too, dear count,” Alric retorted, making Mauvin laugh and kiss him again.
Then, they stopped, Mauvin’s hand still on Alric’s cheek, the forehead touching.
“I love you,” Mauvin whispered, when their head and mouth were still too close.
“What… why are you…”
“Funny, I swore I would never tell you this.” Mauvin chuckles softly. “But you already died on me once and, well, tomorrow didn’t look optimistic so…” he shrugged and stepped back. “You can forget about it once Gaunt wins. Come on, let’s head back and rest a little.”
Alric watched Mauvin’s back as he returned towards the camp, his fingers brushed the lips where he could still felt the lingering feeling on Mauvin’s own lips.
Inside him, there was relief, happiness, and fear. And they weren’t Alric’s emotions.
From the roof of Lord Baldwin’s residence, Arista could see the surrounding still covered by the thick layer of snow. Yet, the temperature wasn’t so low and she quite enjoy the breeze. Spring would come sooner this year, and if it was because of their victory, she couldn’t tell, but she liked to imagine Muriel and Maribor being happy about it.
Her twenty-seven birthday had passed without much celebration and she barely noticed too, to occupied with the aftermath of the invasion. Only one year had passed since the war against the Empire, yet she felt like a decade older. But, she realized, she was happy too, maybe happier than she had been in years.
“Here you are.” Alric joined her: his face was a lot better now that they had settle up a little in the residence, but she wondered if Mauvin’s healing from his wound had something to do with it. “I was looking for you.”
“Do you need me?” she asked.
He nodded. “I’m planning to return to Melengar within the week. I already spoke with the Empress about it and I send a messenger to the nobles… well, the ones that remained. We’ll hold a little council tomorrow to decide how to settle up the restoration. I thought you want to be there.”
Arista nodded. “But I’m not returning to Melengar with you.”
“No?” He sounded surprised.
“I have… other things to do.” She shook her head. “And after all the… witch of Melengar thing, maybe it’s for the best if I’m believed death.”
“You know I don’t care, right, miss necromancer? Sorry, wizardess,” he amended, with a wicked smirk. “For real, sister, I haven’t thanked you properly for having saved me.”
“I don’t feel I saved you at all.”
“No, you kinda resurrected me, and it still counts. So, thank you.” He hugged her tightly and Arista passed her arms around his back, placing her cheek upon his head. She was still a foot taller than him.
“You really not coming?” he asked then, when they parted.
“Not now. But I’ll be back.” She reserved him a smart smile. “You promised to find a bride and get married, remember?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied, rolling his eyes and sounding annoyed. “But I died. I can still produce an heir? Who knows!”
“You’re not going to use this excuse on me, mister.” She chastised it tapping his forehead with her index finger.
Alric laughed. “Fine, fine,” he commented, lifting his hands in a surrender gesture. He reserved an amused look at her and then moved his attention below the parapet of the roof. “But I think that first I have to make sure my body still works perfectly.”
On the courtyard in front of the residence, some servants were taking care of the new-arrived supplies. Between them, Arista recognized Tilly, Alric’s chambermaid, who escaped Drondil Fields and survived the attack against Aquesta.
Arista rolled his eyes at Alric’s amused chuckle.
Mauvin woke up suddenly in the middle of the night, eyes wide open and unable to see anything in the dark of his room. Pleasure spread from his hard dick along all his body. He was alone in the bed, yet he felt as someone was blowing him, a mouth sucking his ball.
“Oh, no,” he realized. “Oh, no, no, no. This isn’t happening. This won’t happen.”
He leaped out of his bed, grabbed his night vest, and put it on as he rushed out of his room. His naked feet clapped on the dark and silent hallway of the palace until he reached the royal wing. No guards stood there, so Mauvin could enter without being spotted. He passed through the welcoming room and opened both panels of the royal bedchamber’s wooden door.
Only a small candle on the night table lightened the room, but it was enough to see Alric’s silhouette as he lied down on his bed, naked, his legs spread open and his chambermaid knelled between them.
Tilly startled at the sound of the door’s panels slammed against the wall; she turned and her face reddened visibility in the dark.
“Y-your Lordship!” Her hands searched frantically for a sheet to cover herself.
“Get out!” Mauvin ordered.
Tilly, a sheet now wrapped around her like a vest, blinked and turned her head a little towards Alric, unsure how to act.
“Mauvin?” Alric asked, his voice weak by the almost orgasm that got interrupted. “W-what are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
Alric used his elbows to lift a little his back from the mattress. His gaze passed on his naked body, the black seal standing up on his pale skin, his still hard penis, a very flustered Tilly, and, finally, on Mauvin.
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
With a sigh, Alric nodded. “Go,” he said to Tilly, with a nod of her head.
Tilly seemed relieved: she scrambled out of the bed and she rushed out of the room. Mauvin waited for the sound of her fast steps to disappear and then closed the door. He turned to Alric, whose mouth was bent down in a pout and his eyebrows in a frown. He did little to cover himself, his erection still visible.
“What’s your problem?” he demanded.
“I’ll show you what the problem is.” Mauvin opened his nightshirt and stuck his hand in his pajama pants. His dick was still hard: he grabbed it and rubbed the tip with his thumb.
Immediately, Alric released a moan and let himself fall back on the mattress, arms opened, head sinking in the pillow. He closed his eyes a little, panting slowly. To make his point, Mauvin stroke his dick a couple of times more, then walked slowly next to the bed.
“Dear Maribor… You’re not going to tell me…” Alric exhaled.
“I don’t need to tell you anything,” Mauvin replied. “But I can touch myself more.”
Alric rolled on his side so he was now looking at him. “Wasn’t it only about pain? I thought-”
“Myron’s book talks about generic feelings. I know I felt cold when you did too, but I never consider…”
“I’m so sorry.” Alric’s fingers slipped under Mauvin’s pajama and brushed lightly the skin where the seal was, and his eyes widened a little as he realized he could fell his own touches on his own skin too.
“I’m not,” Mauvin stated. “But I’m not sure I’ll be comfortable feeling… you having sex with someone else.”
Alric nodded. His eyes narrowed and he looked a little far in the darkroom. “It means we can’t have sex with someone else but each other?”
A witty smirk appeared on Mauvin’s lips. “Funny, it didn’t seem such a bad thing.”
“Not sure.” Alric pretended to be irritated. “All I got until now is an interrupted orgasm.”
Before Mauvin could reply, Alric dragged him on the bed next to him and crawled upon him, remaining four-legged upon him, his legs placed next to Mauvin’s torso. He lowered the pajama pants enough to free Mauvin’s erection and kissed him, pulling out a yelp from Mauvin’s mouth.
From that position, Mauvin reached for Alric’s dick and stroked it, from the balls to the tip. He could feel the ghost of his own hands on himself and he knew Alric could feel his own mouth too, as he was blowing himself. It was the strangest and most overwhelming pleasure Mauvin had ever felt.
The obvious result was they came at the same time, bliss making both bodies trembling and fainting after reaching the peak. Alric’s body collapsed and then rolled so he lay back on the mattress next to Mauvin.
“That groom in Aquesta… is still the best blowjob of your life?”
“Don’t ask what you already know.”
The council of Melengar was a poor thing compared to what once used to be. The nobles that hadn’t perished during the war against the Empire lost their life in the attempt of protecting Drondil Fields against the Elves, and now only five people sat at the table Modina arranged for them at Lord Badwin’s dining room.
Other than Arista and Mauvin, there was also Lord Jest’s third son, now the eldest after the death of his two older brothers, and Lord Red’s son, who was only seventeen. Alenda was there two in place of Myron: of course, she wasn’t a melengarian’s noble, but since her family had joined Alric during the war, he felt it was right to invite her too.
Among them, there was no one older than thirty, and Arista was the oldest. Somehow, Alric felt more at ease with them, because he wasn’t anymore the only kid in the room.
“Thank you for coming.” He stood up and gestured with his hand for the other to remain sit. “As all you know, my decision is to return to Melengar in a few days and start the restoration. Empress Modina offered her aid and we surely need it. We still had to verify with our eyes the damages.”
They had flown from Medford before Sir Breckton’s army attack, and none of them were at Drondil Fields during the siege of Elves. In the eyes of everyone, there was concern about what would they find, or not find, when they would return home.
“What you don’t know is my intention to abdicate as an independent king and have Melengar joins the Empire.”
Eyes widened and head jerked in his direction; the most surprised one was Arista while Mauvin, who was aware of his decision, just nodded lightly.
“Alric… why?” Arista asked. “If it’s because…” Her voice trailed off and she looked at the other nobles, not wanting to tell them the ordeal with the soul bond.
“It’s a lot more complicated than this,” Alric told her. “Besides, it’s not like I’m going to stop to be king, I’ll be king under the empire, like Armand and the others. But,” he returned to look at the others, “if someone is displeased with my decision and would prefer Melengar to remain independent, I gladly abdicate in their favor. Arista, you’re first on the line.”
She startled, surprised. Then shook her head. “I… don’t want to be queen. Not anymore.”
“No way, My King,” Mauvin stated, as Alric’s look fell upon him. Alric didn’t expect him to accept, it was just a formality.
Lord Jest and Lord Red refused too. Even if Alenda was there, the real owner of her lands was Myron, and they all knew Myron was king only of his abbey and his library. So that settled the decision for Melegar to become an imperial province under Alric’s government.
Once the others left, Arista placed a hand on Alric’s shoulder. “Are you sure?”
He nodded. “I guess… dying experiences put things in perspective. Are you disappointed?”
“No. No. Just…” Arista smiled. “Modina is a great girl, and she’ll be a great Empress. It would be different under Saldur or Ethereld, of course, but they’re not a problem anymore, aren’t they?”
“And my sister killed Luis Guy,” Mauvin intervened. “I guess it meant we took care of Melengar’s enemy once and for all.”
Her hand was still on Alric’s shoulder. “Are you fine?”
Alric pondered the question.
He hadn’t been really fine since his death, but at that point, he had come to make peace with the fact that his life his bonded with Mauvin and he had to deal with it and with the consequences. It wouldn’t be different from losing an arm or a leg and learning to live without it: those are the war’s consequences.
The most concern he had was facing his father’s ghost and his ancestor’s ones too. He would be probably the last king of Melengar and the last of the Essendon line and for quite some time; he felt guilty about it, he felt responsible to be a disappointment for them all.
Yet, all he could feel at that moment was relief.
He was free.
“Surprisingly, I am.”
“I can’t believe that!”
Mauvin laughed at Arista outburst. “We haven’t seen each other in months and that’s the welcome I get?”
The Wintertide celebration of the year will still be held in the fields around Lord Balwin’s residence, yet it promised to be great, definitely better than the year before, where Saldur and Ethereld’s plot had created an insurrection and the war was still ongoing. All the nobles of Avryn gathered there, including the Pickerings, who took a pause from the restoration to Drondil Fields.
“Yes, and I just discovered you and Alric planned to go on a year-long trip around the world like you aren’t the Count of Galilin and the Imperial Governor of Melengar.”
“You realize this is an Imperial Approved Journey around the lands of the Empire and the Empire’s good neighbors in order to fortify our relationship?” Mauvin was trying really hard to keep a straight face as he told everything with a serious tone.
“That’s your excuse.” She pocked his chest. “This trip will be less diplomatic and more about too much wine, too many women, and very little sleep.”
“It would be rude to refuse the hospitality around the world,” Mauvin replied, with a grin.
Arista shook her head. “I can’t believe Modina agreed to this.”
“We sold it very well.”
Their discussion was interrupted by Lenare’s arrival. She reserved a bright smile to Arista, before turning toward his brother. “Can you come with me? We need to discuss an important matter.”
Mauvin looked at Arista, who nodded. “But this discussion isn’t over. I’m going to scold my brother now.”
Once she’d left, Lenare looked at Mauvin curiously, but he shook his head. “Let it go. What’s all about?”
“You’ll see,” she replied, mysteriously.
In the private room she accompanied them, his mother was waiting, along with Denek and Lady Alenda with her chambermaid Emily, now her secretary and consultant for governing the Glouston Province. Mauvin sat at his mother’s left side, with Lenare at his right. It couldn’t be good, being surrounded by so many women.
“What is it?” he asked, sounding relaxed.
Emily coughed a little. “Your Lordship, I realize this situation is highly irregular and such a discussion should be held by someone in Lady Alenda’s family, but we are all well aware that Marquis Lanaklin is… quite particular. So I hope you won’t mind if I spoke on Her Ladyship’s behalf instead.”
“Shall we be this formal?” Mauvin asked. “I mean, we have known each other for quite some time.”
Alenda’s gaze was on the ground and Emily answered, after taking one of her hands in her own. “It’s a private matter and we’d like to do things properly.”
“Okay. Go on, then.”
“As you know, Your Lordship, Marquis Lanaklin entrusted Lady Alenda with his proprieties in Glouston. For obvious reason, he won’t have any heir. So Lady Alenda’s children will entrust entirely an incredible rich and wealthy lands. Bigger enough to be divided between more children, if Maribor will bless her. “This is her desire, after what had happened with her brother.”
Mauvin remained silent, but he didn’t like the discussion.
“Now, Her Ladyship is still a young woman and, I dare to say, a beautiful one. And of course, her heritage as Lanaklin was among the thirty-two most notable noble Houses around. Considering, Your Lordship, your own properties, and your lineage, we are wondering if you would consider the idea of a marriage with her Ladyship as convenient.”
Oh Dear Maribor, Mauvin thought. He knew that most noble marriages happened like that, like a sort of audition for the best candidate, but since his parents married out of love, he really never considered it likely to happen to him.
“You don’t have to decide now,” Alenda added, finally lifting her head. “We’re aware of your assignment for the Empress. But I’d like for you to… thinking about it.”
“Why me?” Mauvin asked, genuinely curious. “I’m pretty sure there are other young nobles with my credential, and some of them are your neighbors too. I can understand ruling out Degan because he’s a commoner, but…”
Lenare released an exasperated huff. “Because she didn’t like other nobles.”
Oh. Oh. Mauvin looked at Alenda’s red cheeks and understood. Inside himself, he sighed heavily. He liked Alenda, he liked all the Lanaklins and he mourned their death, so his answer would be unpleasant. Now he was almost happy they had decided to be so formal.
“Your Ladyship, I am honored of your appreciation and I thank you for your offer, but I must decline,” he said, looking directly at Alenda. He could feel the incredulous look of his mother and Lenare on him.
“Are you sure you won’t think a little more about this?” his mother asked.
Mauvin shook his head. “First of all, I don’t plan to get married. Ever.” It drew even more incredulous stares around. “Denek’s sons can inherit my title.”
Denek grinned. “Can I have the sword too?”
“Over my dead body,” Mauvin replied and gave him a friendly slap. “You see, Your Ladyship, I am in love with someone else and I decided to dedicate all my life to this person. It’s not like I have another choice.”
For a long moment, the silence fell upon the room. It was clear to Mauvin that all of them were thinking about who this person might be, and if they would dare to ask.
“Is it Princess Arista?” Alenda asked them, and immediately became flustered. “I’m sorry, I’m sure it’s not my place to ask and I never want to intrude-”
Mauvin only laughed.
“Right family, wrong person.”
In the evening, Alric scolded Mauvin about this. He laughed at the marriage proposal, while Mauvin told him as they were naked in Alric’s bed, cuddling. But he didn’t appreciate the idea of Mauvin being so carefree about their relationship, at least not before talking about them.
“Now everyone will speak about us.”
“How come?” Mauvin protested. “Only my family and Alenda were there. I doubt they’re going to tell anyone.”
“Once the news is out, it just spreads. You know how it is with gossip around nobles.”
Mauvin kissed Alric’s naked shoulder. “They’ll talk about it until the next rumor arises, and at that point, we’ll be far away, in Trent or Calis or wherever we want. That’s how it is.”
“Still, I would have preferred you being a little vaguer about it.” Alric huffed and turned around in the sheet, turning his back at Mauvin. A flow of disappointment gurgled inside himself.
“Are you ashamed of us?” Mauvin asked.
“I haven’t said that.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Alric didn’t answer. He didn’t have a clear answer. Maybe it was just having spent so many years to hide their relationship, even to deny it under the label of ‘friends that fuck’ in order to control it. They’ve thought for so long it wouldn’t last that having now the chance to be together without concern was something Alric had still problems to process, although most of his recent decision was made because of it.
“Listen.” Mauvin settled in a sitting position. “I apologize for having told anyone without talking with you first. Alenda’s proposal caught me by surprise.” He laughed a little.
Even if Alric wasn’t looking at him, he imagined his eat-shitting grin, and he couldn’t help but smile too. It had been very good sex, and now it was even better.
“I felt I’ve been incredibly good at keeping this relationship a secret when I really would love to scream about this,” Mauvin continued, as Alric remained silent. “But I know you don’t feel the same as me, so I should have kept this into consideration.”
Alric turned at him, frowning. “What do you mean I don’t feel the same?”
“Well, you know…” Mauvin lowered his head so he didn’t look at him. “This soul bond thing really benefits me more than you.”
Considering that it was the soul bond that kept Alric alive, it was a very bold statement. Alric studied a little Mauvin’s face, and the feeling of guilt that fell upon him. And also, love.
“You know I’m in love with you, right?” Alric asked.
Mauvin’s head jerked up, big surprised eyes looked at him. “You… you never told me.”
“I can’t believe it!” Alric threw his hands in the air in frustration. “Why in Maribor’s name do you think I’ll let you fuck me for years?”
“Because I’m good at it and you like sex?” Mauvin’s expression was sheepish, but a little smile started to appear on his lips.
Alric shook his head in disbelief. He cupped Mauvin’s face with both hands. “Mauvin. I love you. I’ve been in love with you for years.”
As he kissed him, a mixture of emotion passed through him thanks to the soul bond: relief, love, and, more than that, a surge of happiness as he never felt it. Alric was overwhelmed by the fact it only needed those three, simple words for Mauvin to felt so happy.
“You’re happy. Happiest I’ve ever felt you.”
“I’ve been in love with you since I was sixteen,” Mauvin said, as he dragged Alric back lying on the bed and kept him close. “But I’ve always believed nothing will come out from it, except, maybe, some really good sex. I thought you…”
Alric shook his head. He couldn’t pinpoint the moment he fell in love with Mauvin, probably it was something slowly during the years, the way Mauvin had been always at his side. But he, too, believed that they wouldn’t have been more than two friends that fuck, and, once they’re both married, they would even lose that bond.
The war changed everything.
No, not the war.
The death.
Now they had a bond that couldn’t be severed, and their duty couldn’t stand between that.
“I can’t believe I had to die to get this.”
Mauvin laughed. “I can’t believe your death is one the best thing that happened to me.”
Alric turned to him. “To us.” -
.
It was a simple assignment. The oil painting was kept on the fourth floor of the city palace, a height Royce had no problem climbing. Sure, the guards controlled the facade closely, and with the party going on, there was enough light that impeded Royce to hide in the dark. But the party constituted also a good diversion, because they knew the owner wouldn’t be in his office all evening, so they have to act.
They just need a nice diversion.
Royce reached the roof of the palace at the end of the road, then jumped from roof to roof until he landed in the one next to their target. From there, he was invisible from the guards that only checked their windows, but he could see very well Hadrian’s movements and listen to what happened below him.
“You don’t understand!” Hadrian whined, as one of the guards tried to push him away. “I need to speak with her! She just can’t leave me, you know? We were about to get married.”
“I’m really sorry, pal, but this isn’t Miss Barryton’s house. It’s Mister Lynch.”
“Marie! Come out! Speak to me!”
The guard grabbed Hadrian by the arm, a lot more gently than he should have, in Royce’s opinion. “Come with me.”
As an answer, Hadrian threw his arms around his neck and started sobbing against his chest. The guard turned to his colleagues, unsure of to react when a six-foot-tall man cried like a child with total strangers around. Then Hadrian moved aside, bent down, and pretended to vomit on the guard’s boots.
Royce smirked: sometimes Hadrian played the part of the lovesick drunker so much Royce suspected he was drunk for real. But at that point, the guards’ attention had shifted enough from the facade to Hadrian, that Royce could effortlessly slip down from the roof to reach the office’s window.
Balancing himself on the windowsill, and with an eye still on the street below to be sure Hadrian’s actions were still enough distracting, he forced the windows open and leaped inside. The room was completely dark, something he had no problem with. He saw in the dark the same way he saw in the light.
And that was the reason he spotted the man inside the room immediately. He was very skinny, almost scheletrical, with pale skin and dark copper hair finely brushed. His clothes were elegant, the fabric was definitely the last fashion in Delgos, and everything spoke wealthy, including the hands, who had long, well-kept fingers.
Under normal circumstances, Royce wouldn’t have any problems taking care of any obstacles or inconveniences he found on his path. Because of Hadrian, he wasn’t used to killing anymore if it was not necessary, but there were other ways to incapacitate a man, especially when Royce was still invisible in the dark.
What bothered Royce that time, and the reason he stood frozen next to the window for too long, was the man’s action. His hands were on the painting that was Royce’s target too, and he carefully took it off the wall it was hung to. His intention was clearly to hide it inside the luggage he had with him.
The man turned, painting in his head, and the light from outside was probably enough to make Royce visible, or at least his silhouette standing against the windows. The man froze and blinked on the spot. Royce’s hand went immediately to Alverstone and the blade shone in the dark, but before he could act, the man screamed.
“Thief! Assassin! Help! Please!”
The door busted open a second later and a giant man entered, looking around, with his eyes that passed between the man, who was gestured frantically at Royce. The new arrived did seem an enough skilled fighter, even if he wasn’t armed, and Royce decided he wouldn’t risk a fight, especially because he was sure the screams had alerted the guards and Hadrian’s farce wouldn’t be enough.
With a swift movement, he jumped on the windowsill again before the giant man could catch him and climbed back on the roof. He reserved only a brief look below, where he spotted the guards’ movements and Hadrian, who was pretending to still be sick from drunkenness but he had his hand on the pommel of his sword, before running away.
He reached the render-vouz with Hadrian an hour later, when both of them were enough safe no one had followed them and realized they worked together. Royce was pissed off, while Hadrian was mostly concerned by the situation.
“What happened?”
After so many years, the unwandering faith Hadrian had in Royce and in his abilities still baffled Royce.
“I’m not sure, to be honest.”
“Did you get caught?”
“Not really, no…” He looked at Hadrian straight in the eyes. “I think I actually impeded a robbery.”
“You had to admit, this is one of the stranger things that happened to us,” Jean said.
They sat down at the private table in their inn for breakfast, after being up all night to be interrogated by the guards and the city watch about what happened at Mister Lynch’s residence. It had been not easy finding a credible excuse for their presence near his office.
At Locke’s glare, Jean amended, “okay, maybe not the strangest, but close enough. How many probabilities there were that two thieving happened at the same time?”
“I’m pretty sure you can calculate it if you want.”
“You’re pissed off,” Jean stated.
“As usual, I applaud your observation skills.” Locke shook his head. “We spent three weeks planning this job, and it hadn’t been easy pretending to be Mister Reginald Caffrey, and everything went to shit in two seconds.”
“I guess the other thief will be pretty pissed off too,” Jean commented thoughtfully. “We basically ruined each other’s plan.”
“Climbing a palace and forced the windows open. Whoever he was, he had the elegance of a sloth swimming in a piss lake.”
Jean said nothing. The Bastard Gentlemen used to enter by the main door, but it had happened in the past they used more common thieving methods. He understood Locke was just complaining about the other thief’s physical abilities. Even Jean admitted he had never seen anyone move like that.
“So, what are we going to do now?”
“For now? Sleeping like a log. I can’t think if I’m this tired. Then…” Locke crossed his arms and lifted his head at the ceiling, his eyes narrowed in concentration. “I need to speak with Mister Lynch as soon as possible, to maintain our cover and have another shot at the painting.” He grumbled. “I’m sure at that point he moved the painting somewhere safe. Somewhere harder for us to steal. What a pain in the ass…”
“Do you remember I have the play tonight? I buy the tickets days ago.”
Locke looked at him with wide, betrayed eyes. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am. Not my fault if you prefer spending all your money with whores because they’re the only ones that kiss your ass.”
“Bastard,” Locke complained.
Locke woke up when someone shook him by the shoulder. He startled, his hand went to the sword, when he recognized the little chuckle.
“You’ll be already dead.”
“Not funny, you traitor,” Locke complained, and stretched. He’d fallen asleep at the table, scribbling and trying to find a plausible justification with Mister Lynch. “So, how was the play?”
“Nothing that actually justified all its success.” Jean shrugged. “But it was… educational, in some way. Do you want to know why?”
Locke eyed him. “Only if it could help with our current situation.”
“It actually can.” There was a grin on Jean’s face and his eyes shone a little. Lockle settled better on the chair and smirked.
“Go on, then. Surprise me.”
“Well, this play is freely inspired by the murder of an Avryn king that happened a couple of years ago. Nothing really interesting, it follows the story of the crown prince as he finds the conspiracy against his family and defeats the enemy and then becomes king.”
“I really can’t comprehend how you can be interested in this shit.”
Jean ignored him. “The prince is assisted during his adventures by two thieves. They’re actually the best characters and their lines were the funniest. But what caught my attention was how those two thieves were depicted: one is small, all dressed in black, and he’s capable with stealth mission. The other one is a lot bigger, and a skilled swordsman.”
“Now I’m listening.”
“I spoke a little with the public and then I slipped to talk with the actors. I wanted to know how much truth there is.”
“Stop being melodramatic and just tell me.”
Jean chuckled. “Fine. The author himself did not know much, but apparently, in Avryn it exists a couple of independent agents that accept assignments from nobles, like stealing, kidnapping, things like that. They called themselves Riyria.”
“Oh.” Locke joined his hands in understanding. “You think Miss Tiffany found us and hired us in that tavern because she mistook us for these Riyria.”
“And also that the man we saw in Lynch’s office was one of them. Credible, isn’t it? You also were suspicious at the idea of someone hiring us for stealing.”
Locke tapped his fingers on the table, thinking. “Well, we need to find out a little more about this, but I may just have an idea about this.” He grinned. “And it’s a good one. I should really kiss you for this.”
“Nothing is stopping you,” Jean replied, with a smirk.
“Except your ugly face, you mean.”
The next day, Locke was ready with his new plan. He hid himself in the Reginald Caffrey disguise, took the purse with the forgery he’d prepared, and headed for Lynch’s residence. They’d studied his habits so Locke knew he was at home and, hopefully, he was in a good mood after the lunch he had with his daughters.
As expected, he was actually in a good mood, or so Locke deduced because he was actually admitted in Lynch’s office, but the man had a scold on his face as looked at Locke.
“I had to say, Mister Caffrey, I don’t believe your excuse one second,” he said as a greeting, pacing in front of the window in his office. “I don’t know why you wanted my painting, but you were there for it. I’ll give you a free pass with the watch if you give me the right explanation.”
Locke sat down on the armchair. “You’re right not believing me. And I am here to give you an explanation, but I can assure you, I’m not here to rob you. Quite the contrary, in fact.”
Lynch crossed his arms on his chest and leaned a little against the windowsill, unconvinced. But he said, “I’m listening.”
“First, I have to confess someone. I am Reginald Caffrey, but I’m not a wine merchant. I am a clerk from Chadwick.”
“Chadwick? It’s in Avryn, isn’t it?” Lynch frowned.
“That is correct, dear sir. I was sent here by my Lord in order to investigate a particular situation, that involves you only marginally. That is the reason I kept a low profile and didn’t inform you sooner.”
“And now I should believe you why….?”
Locke took out one parchment from his leather bag. “I have here the letter of appointment that certified my identity and my lord’s orders.”
Lynch read it closely, his eyes narrowing on the small letters. It was the riskiest moment of Locke’s plan: he hadn’t had much time to investigate over Avryn’s seals to make a perfect reply, but his language style was pretty good, and Locke counted on Lynch’s lack of knowledge over Avryn’s nobles to not recognized a forged seal.
“Let’s say I believe you,” Lynch affirmed, after returning the parchment. “What is it this assignment?”
Inside himself, Locke was smiling. The first part of the plan was successful. Outside, he put on a grave face and said, “I’m investigating in order to apprehend two criminals named Riyria.”
He waited for Lynch’s reaction; although he pretended not to recognize the name, Locke understood he had definitely heard about them.
“Continue.”
“There is an arrest order coming from my lord but, of course, it was only valid in Chadwick. Outside it, I have to rely more on stealth. But I assure you, Riyria has a long story of thieving around, and Delgos wasn’t enough far away to escape their wrath.”
Lynch was pacing again in front of the window. “How do you know they want my painting?”
“I don’t,” Locke replied. He could feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins every time his con reached its peak. Father Chain had taught him to control himself on such occasion. “The painting was just a diversion once they realized I was about to catch them. I’m pretty sure they’re looking for something more… vital, for you. The worked for the king of Melengar, you know.”
Locke watched with quite amusement as Lynch’s body froze a little during his pace, his eyes narrow in concentration and then widened a little in understanding. He turned to Locke again.
“How do you find out?”
It’s incredible how much people could assume with only a few good word and started telling people something they shouldn’t.
“I’m good at my work. But don’t worry, like I said, this has nothing to do with you. I’m only interested in Riyria and, now that you know, I’d like to ask for your help.”
Since Lynch hesitated, Locke added, in a lower tone, “I may be able to stop Riyria, but alone, I can’t guarantee you it’ll be first they manage to put their hands on your private properties. I already failed once because I kept information from you.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I’d like you to help me setting a trap.” Locke relaxed and smiled pleasantly, his back now rested against the armchair. “Let’s them believe we are convinced their target is the painting. Publicize the fact you’re moving it to another, safer place. The safest one you may think.”
“I was already thinking of putting it in the safe of the central bank.” Lynch lips trembled a little as he tapped it with his finger. “I was about to ask the director for a spot. I don’t think he’ll deny me. And then?” There were expectations in his expression, and Locke knew he got him.
“You won’t move the painting, but the things Riyria was interested in, and you’ll be assured you’ll be accompanied by most guards,” he explained. “They will see your attention is all on it, and they’ll believe their path towards is free.”
“So they’ll try again to penetrate my office? My safe is there.”
Locke nodded. “Exactly. My associate and I, alongside a couple of expert fighters, will wait there for their move. We have to be few people, to not be spotted and not arise any suspect, you understand.”
“Of course.” Color returned on Lynch’s face. “But are you sure they’ll act within the day?”
“It’s their best occasion. You and most of your entourage will be distracted. I felt that, right now, you had the painting under heavy surveillance?”
“Yes. And by accident, it’s in the same place of… the other thing.”
“So, as you see, they can’t act now. They are lurking in the shadow, waiting for an opening. We’ll give them one.”
Now Lynch’s eyes shone and his mouth opened in a feral smirk. “I’ll go immediately to talk with the bank’s direction. Hopefully, we can have the transfer tomorrow morning.”
“Just remember to publicize it with everyone.” Locke stood up. “In the meantime, I’ll fetch my men so we will be ready to come as soon as possible for setting up the trap. Call me as soon as you have the confirmation?”
He leaned his hand forwards and Lynch shook it with enthusiasm.
“Absolutely. And thank you!”
When he left the residence, Locke’s humor rose considerably. He didn’t like much preparing con in so little time, and he had to improvise a lot during their conversation. Luckily, the information he’d manage to get over Riyria, Melengar, and Lynch were enough, and some sentence well-made had done the rest.
Now the last thing that remained was for Lynch to call him, so he could snatch the painting pretending to surveil it, and let Riyria break their heads into stealing the painting from the bank. Jean and he should make a hasty escape after getting the painting so Locke planned to spend the rest of the day organizing it and Mister Reginald Caffrey’s disappearance.
He maintained his cover until he was safe back in his room and only there he returned back to his old self. He had to take down the disguise on his face, but he and Caffrey had different walking styles, different postures, different ways to look around and speak.
“Not bad for only a day of preparation,” he said to himself, regaining his Camorr tongue. He cracked his shoulders, he was forced to keep sloppier as Mister Caffrey.
The time to place his bag on the bed, as he was starting to feel back like himself, and the sharp blade of a dagger was pressed at his neck. He remained completely still and lifted his hands. He turned back into Reginald immediately.
The room was small, with a wooden floor. It wasn’t possible someone managed to sneak on him. And yet…
“Impressive disguise,” said a cold voice behind him. “We need to have a bit of a chat, you and I.”
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