A festive air danced about the city as the ornate carriage winded its way through crowded streets. Banners swayed overhead, flecks of bright blues, reds and greens against a pearly white sky. Market stalls hung enchanted wind-chimes outside their shops which sang in its tinkles the coming of spring.
Alastair scoffed.
"Has the cold frozen the brains of these folk?" he said as he peered out of the carriage window, the winds whipping at his hood. "When's the Spring Fest supposed to be held?"
"In a fortnight from now. The announcement was quite loud enough. Thought you heard," said a sullen looking Marches from the opposite seat.
"It was a rhetorical question," Alastair grumbled but did not argue.
Beside him sat the king's personal physician, and Ryffin and Marches on the opposite.
The Royal Sorcerer was in a rather foul mood today. On one hand, Sergeant Linder--Draedona's Chosen One apparently, bless his gloomy abyss of a wardrobe-- was far too invested in chasing down the Royal Guards and Alfred in whatever devious plans they were up to, rather than train and practice his newly gained powers. Secondly, order had arrived from a council held up in the temple district that Spring Fest be held regardless of the weather conditions. The Royal Sorcerer's plea of keeping the city gates closed for this year had fallen on deaf ears. And on top of that--
"Is this gilded carriage the least conspicuous thing you could find, Ellanher?" said Ryffin from where he sat beside Marches, his annoyance thinly veiled. "Because announcing to the entire city that a carriage straight from the royal palace is headed toward the Henris Manor does not seem the best idea, if we are to keep this visit a secret from Alfred."
"Won't be a problem," said Alastair. "He's gone to the Isles for a meeting, from what I gathered."
"And yes," said Marches, "this is the cheapest carriage I could find that would be a bit easy on my poor back." He groaned as he tried to sit upright, and a series of pops and cracks sounded from his joints. "Gods, the cold is getting to me."
"You're like a cranky old man," said Ryffin with a good-natured laugh. "Though I suppose a lifetime of sitting at desks would do that to you."
But the Royal Sorcerer did not seem to find it humorous in the least, for he looked downright terrified. "Old?" He squinted at the carriage window, trying to catch a glimpse of his own reflection.
Other times, this would have entertained him, but now he felt but empty inside. Alastair looked away, placing his head against the cold glass as the city flashed by. A much plain looking carriage followed close by, with Eliora, Farren, Linder and Xenro, a golden-haired mercenary who had offered his aid, in case things went wrong. The Royal Sorcerer too had come along for the same purpose, but Alastair prayed that there won't be a need for unleashing either of their powers.
Everything was losing its color before his eyes. The paper banners overhead were a dull grey, the streets muddied with puddles from the melted snow, a great cloud hovering before the weak sun.
When the carriages came to a halt inside the gates of the Henris Manor, he dragged himself out without much in the way of introduction. Marches, who had found a single grey hair on the way, muttered something about his life being doomed and followed suit.
Others went inside except the Royal Sorcerer, who positioned himself by the front doors, magic at the ready in case of anything amiss.
The old servant answered the door like always. He smiled warmly as he stepped aside. "I see the young master has brought guests over. Shall I make arrangements for dinner?"
A murmur rose from the group as they came to an agreement among themselves. Linder answered in their stead. "Thank you, but we must refuse. We won't be long."
Questions of courtesies aside, Alastair quite agreed, for the sooner this visit was over, the better. The Henris' did not get many visitors, and therefore it might come off as suspicious.
"Just one thing, please," he said to the old man, quite literally forcing politeness into his voice while in truth Alastair felt like thrashing around and breaking things. "Do not mention any of this to Alfred. I'll be in trouble if he hears any of this."
The old man laughed as he waved his hand in an off-handed gesture. "He won't know a thing. No one around here would be gossiping if I say no. Why, your father brought in a horse through the front doors as a lad, no trouble."
"What?" Alastair's lips quirked up, despite all his attempts not to smile. "I never knew that!"
"Exactly," said the man, twirling his grey mustache with pride.
They found Tassya sitting at the patio, thinning hair loose over her back, a book open in her lap.
"My, Al, this is a pleasant surprise!" she said as she motioned them to sit. She always loved to have visitors. Back when he was little and the business was in her hands, Henris Manor used to be a lively place. She'd have friends over, hold important meetings in the large hall upstairs and the festivities held at Spring Fests rivalled the palace's celebrations. Things changed when she fell ill and Alfred took over.
He looked to the gardens; so empty and plain, pillars unadorned. Such desolation ruled the Henris Manor when Spring Fest was right around the corner.
"I'm honored to have you as my guests," she said, once the newcomers had introduced themselves, save for the mercenary who stood guard over them, his face sober. "I'm glad that you came. It gets lonely around here sometimes."
Alastair went over to kneel by her and took her hands. His heart wrenched at how brittle they felt in his grip.
She looked mildly surprised. "Yes? What is it?"
The inevitable truth was clear before his eyes. She did not have much time. He hoped the two healers and the alchemist would prove him wrong with their expertise.
"Tassya..." he began slowly, looking over at the others for a moment. Their expressions were schooled into a neutral look. Even Farren's. "You must not mention this to Alfred."
A crease appeared between her brows, fingers fiddling in his grip. "Why?"
Alastair gestured to Eliora and the king's physician. "They're healers, here to have a look at you."
Tassya smiled, shaking her head. "I'm fine, silly. In fact, I've been better than ever lately. There's no need." Then to the healers: "I apologise if he has given you any trouble. I do appreciate you coming all the way here."
No wonder she kept feeling better as she'd taken the medicine brought by Alfred. The poison had slowly made her numb against the pain. A dull ache rose in the back of his throat. "Tassya, please," he said, clasping the fingers that had begun to slip away from his grasp. "You've tried all the treatments by the healers Fred brought from all around the city. Won't you give mine a chance? You can continue on with the medicines you take now. They won't interfere with this at all."
Alastair knew they won't.
They're just sugar.
Alfred had given him one week to be off. He'd taken these first four days to replace it all, throwing the original contents into the fireplace. But Linder was rather upset when he told him that.
He now gestured to the healers, who came to his aid. "Any current treatment won't be a problem. If the Lady would be so kind as to allow us to help, that is."
Tassya sighed, agreeing at last. "It won't make much difference, I think. I've been like this for a while now. But if this is what you want so badly, fine."
For the first time that day, Alastair found himself smiling. "Thank you."
✦✧✦✧
The old clock down in the hallway tolled the time as Alastair paced to and fro outside of Lady Tassya's chamber. Eliora and the physician had gone in a mere quarter hour ago, but minutes stretched into eternity as he could hear not a word spoken inside. The mercenary stood silent just near the door, leaning on his tall two-handed sword, eyes closed. The rest waited below in the parlor, none uttering a sound. The silence pressed down upon him from all sides.
Could anyone survive after months of being slow-fed poison, let alone someone already sick and frail?
Alastair half-knew that answer, yet he wanted the healers to disagree, somehow.
A part of him wanted to find out wherever Alfred had gone and strangle him to death with his bare hands, while another wanted to run. To run away from everyone and everything. It was all his fault. The arrogance with which he'd defied everyone. The soldiers--and those gathered here-- may have shown him kindness, perhaps out of pity, but fate was ever merciless--the fate he'd built with his own hands.
It was his own decision to leave her behind to live the life of a soldier, not for the love of his homeland, no, but for glory. The glory of arms and armour, of bounty aplenty in battles won, of being something more than just the bastard brat of a wealthy merchant. Yet here he was.
Perhaps he would not have to see this day had he never left.
Stairs creaked under heavy boots to his left.
"Stop this and sit still," said Farren sternly, coming to the top of the stairs. "You'll need a healer too at this rate."
He halted in his tracks, swaying on his feet. The hallway twisted and churned in his vision and his legs ached. But she didn't need to know that. Alastair closed his eyes, trying to regain his balance and not fall unceremoniously to the floor and prove her point. He turned to face her.
"Why'd you come here, anyway?" he snarled. "Think you're so kind for coming here to see my dying sister?"
Farren gave him a steely stare, inhaling deeply as she cracked her knuckles. She said nothing, perhaps not even considering him worthy of an answer.
"Listen here," he said, "I know you told them I was innocent. So I did not alert the mages when I saw you dragging your sorry arse out of the camp. We are even. It'll do you good to remember that."
"Shut up, blue-blood," she said wearily. "Don't make me break your nose a second time. Wouldn't wanna ruin the only redeeming thing about you, do we?"
But it felt as though some punching around would do him good-- either he would vent some of his anger, or get knocked out himself, which would be a sweet relief from this torturous waiting.
Unfortunately, Farren did not appear to be in the mood to throw hands. "Why do you hate the sight of me so much anyway? I mean, a bunch of other folk do too, but they've got good reasons for it. I don't remember crossing you."
Alastair shook his head and moved away from the hall to lean over the bannisters, looking down at the parlor.
He truly did not know why he hated her so much.
But he knew he was supposed to. She and all those peasant-borns of the lower rung, as Alfred liked to refer to them.
It baffled him to find such differences were, however, erased in the garrisons like Kinallen, where he and Farren were of the same rank, wore the same uniforms, bore the same insignia. Perhaps the hatred had stemmed from there, or the fact that she'd dared to strike back.
She laughed to herself when Alastair did not answer. "Is it because of the brand, Henris?"
In a way, it was.
Her scars and the brand surely helped him rationalize the hatred. Surely it wasn't unjust if the subject of the hate was a loathsome thief?
Catching her off guard, he let out a bitter laugh too. His judgement of people was so good that his best friend turned out to be a hired killer, and his enemy stood by his side--however begrudgingly-- when he needed it the most. Bravo, Alastair Henris.
Time passed more easily when they bickered, it turned out.
Soon after, the doors to Tassya's chamber creaked open and the two healers walked out, faces dark. Alastair's heart sank. Hope fizzled away from his heart, like a candle blown out.
Eliora was the first to speak once they were back down at the parlor. "Alright boy, I'm going to give this to you loud and clear. Hardly any point in sugarcoating." She paused. "She's had consumption, originally, but the poison she's ingested all these years has destroyed her from the inside. She won't make it.”
The floor slipped away from beneath his feet. He was falling, falling, until the hard stone floor slammed painfully into his knees, rattling his bones. He no longer cared. She won't make it.
The one to break the silence that followed was the mercenary. Alastair could not recall his name, nor could he care less.
"Why?" he demanded, hefting his sword onto his shoulder. "The captain said you brought a soldier back from the verge of death. Then why--"
Sergeant Linder had gotten up too. He took a long look at the mercenary before siding with him. "He is right, Doc. You saved me that night with intensive healing. You said a patron God had stepped into the fray. Healing is easier than ever before."
She'd treated Alastair too. He'd been in a bad condition when they released him from his imprisonment, but Eliora had mended everything from bruises to broken teeth. He'd felt the flow of sorcery against his skin, caught glimpses of the etheral glow of the rune gloves. It had been a night full of agony, but he'd healed.
The magic was stronger than ever now, right in this room. The gloves cast a blue sheen against her wrinkled face as she spoke, a note of frustration entering her voice. "Sorcery has its limits. We'd have no deaths if all could be solved by magic."
"But you have to try!" cried Alastair, "whatever healing magic you tried on me, it worked."
The healer sighed, looking down at her hands. Magic pulsed and glowed, eager to be used. Eager to save a life, to make a heart beat more alive than ever before.
She took the gloves off, the glow dissipating.
The mercenary reared away in defeat, back hitting the wall as he raised his hands to his face. Farren was looking away, out through the glass doors to the garden.
"Been doing this for forty years of my life, folks. You wouldn't have to ask me twice if I was sure it would work. I am well aware of what intensive healing is capable of achieving," Eliora said, head hung low. "But the patient has to be able to take it."
Heavy silence rang a shrill note in his ears.
"To those of you I could save--you are young, hale and strong. You can take it and bear through the harrowing pain with clenched teeth. Still, you all suffered. Sergeant, you were down in bed until only recently, even after you had been healed. Now tell me, how do you expect Lady Tassya to be able to take it? I could cure her consumption, but never reverse the effects of the poison that's already been through. She hasn't got much time, but I'll be cutting it in half, if I were to perform intensive healing now. And that, I must never do."
A sound of clinking of glasses caused Alastair to look up.
The old servant was frozen in his tracks, a tray in his hands with a glass of milk upon it. That blasted medicine--the one which Alastair knew he'd switched, was beside the glass. "...Poison? What do you mean?"
Something in Alastair, something hideous, long held back, broke free.
The things that followed happened too fast for him to register what he was really doing.
Alastair felt the scalding glass against his wrist, the hot milk spilling across his hand, burning as it went. The glass shattered on the floor, breaking into a thousand glittering shards. He snatched the medicine, tore apart the envelope and stamped on it. He hated how angry tears spilled from his eyes. "You knew everything, didn't you? Alfred put you up to this!"
"Young master, I've no idea what--"
Arms were around Alastair the next moment, Ryffin and the mercenary pulling him back as he made to reach for his collar.
The servant, a gentle and kindly old man employed in the Henris family for generations, truly had no clue of what he'd just been accused of. He watched Alastair in horror.
Alfred would not make such a silly move as to let common servants know of his dirty business. Not even Tassya's personal maid had a clue what was in those folded papers, that much had been clear in tbe past four days, since none knew they'd all been swapped. Alastair knew, yet a desperate anger coiled inside of him, fighting to burst out.
"Pardon me, but how could you say that? Poison...! I have-- I have helped raise you since you were this big," the servant gestured, his expression most anguished.
Linder swerved in between them and apologised to the man. Then he turned to Alastair, his face stern. "Stop this nonsense. We must think rationally."
"We?" Alastair snapped, "why, it isn't your sister that's dying in there! Of course this is easy for you to say."
"We can have Alfred arrested by the City Watch," said Farren.
Linder shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"With what evidence, pray tell? Alastair has thrown it all into the fireplace. All it would do is alert Alfred and his associates in the Royal Guard of our moves. He's got friends in the Royal Guard. He will manage to get out of it. But that's not the only reason I ask you to hold back," Linder said. "Once Alfred realises he is cornered, he'll become more dangerous. More desperate. And you know who will take the brunt of it?"
He did not say it out loud, but his eyes went to the closed doors of Tassya's chamber upstairs. Ryffin and Xenro let Alastair go once he stopped thrashing around.
Linder sat back down on one of the armchairs and leaned forward, chin resting on his folded hands. "The situation is delicate. Sending her away, or questioning Alfred upfront would do more harm than good. What we can do, however, is make sure she's safe where she is. I can deploy a unit from Brittlerock to keep watch on her and Alfred. It'll be needed for the investigation anyway."
"We'll help too," said the servant.
Heads turned to him.
The man heaved a sigh. "I don't know what evil has taken hold of Master Alfred to do such a vile thing, but I swear I will not let it continue any longer. Had I known, those poisoned medicines would never have gotten past the threshold of this house. But give this old man another chance, is all I ask. I'll take care of her, just like I always have for the Henris." He turned to Alastair, raising a hand to pat his shoulder--then retreated it. "You... have nothing to worry about, young master. I would rather cut my hands off than do any harm to the Lady."
Alastair could not bear to look him in the eye. Shame overtook him as he managed to choke out the words, "I'm sorry."
He made no more foolish acts as Eliora and the physician discussed their findings and decided upon the medications that should be given. A quill scratched as Ryffin took notes, positive that he'd be able to brew them. Tassya's final days would be a bit less harrowing, it seemed.
He sat in silence still, as Linder and Farren spoke of the strategic locations in which to place the squad from Brittlerock to keep watch. They were all trying to help him, yet in the end it mattered little. She won't make it.
He got to his feet and began to make his way up the stairs. A voice called out from behind.
Standing at the foot of the staircase, one hand resting on top of the newel carved into the shape of a sceptre, was the mercenary. He had never met this man, and the opposite had to be true, yet in his face was such compassion he'd seen nowhere before. Were there people out there able to feel the loss of a complete stranger in such a way?
"Yes?" he asked.
The mercenary cleared his throat. "You know...I have not been with this company for long. But I have seen my fair share of war in my life. There is this ancient Midaelian custom, dating back to times before the Great War, that I want you to know about, for this situation you face is no less than a battle."
He looked young, barely a year older than Alastair. How he spoke of battles long gone, he did not know. But Alastair listened still, to that mesmerizing cadence which held his restless mind in place, if only for a moment.
"When a warrior survives a battle, but is left with a grievous wound that is beyond the aid of sorcery, their comrades do not beat themselves up about it. Perhaps if they fought a little harder, their friend could have been saved. But there is no use in regret. The war is already over. Instead, the fallen are surrounded by their loved ones and presented with gifts, so their last days may be peaceful. You don't lament their passing, you treasure those last moments. You honor their last requests when you still have time."
Sorcery brushed past him, the very same Alastair felt the night Eliora healed his wounds and broken bones. With a nod, the mercenary retreated, vanishing down the hallway just as a wind cleared the clouds outside and sunlight streamed in through the window above, flooding the hall with light. Alastair watched him go. His flowing hair was spun gold, the sword strapped to his back radiant.
He rushed up the stairs as he heard Tassya calling.
It was nothing urgent, however. She'd propped herself up on pillows and asked if the guests needed anything. Even after they were gone, she made no mention of what the healers had gleaned from her examination. When she spoke next, her voice was uncharacteristically solemn.
"Sit." She beckoned him close, gesturing to a well-cushioned stool near the four-poster bed.
"The papers...I have them all ready," she told him. "You'll get your fair share of Father's inheritance. I love you both, but I do know for a fact that Fred can be a bit... difficult. I won't let anyone deprive you of what is rightfully yours. Is that clear?"
Alastair scoffed. "I don't care about the inheritance. Just get well, will you?"
Tassya laughed, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Stop being such a big baby and grow up, Al. I won't always be there to pamper you. I've done it a bit too much already, I think."
Alastair sat there, head lowered, nails digging into the woodwork of the stool. Tassya said nothing as his shoulders shook with stifled sobs. She stroked his hair, a habit she said she'd learnt from her mother.
From the grand bedroom window overlooking the city, a gentle wind wafted in-- not cold, nor unkind, but soft, carrying the merry sounds of the city preparing for the Spring Fest. Sunrays fell in dusty beams above the siblings. Bells rang in temples afar.
Tassya looked up, taking in all the golden sun she could with her eyes, all the breeze she could feel brush against her face.
"Take me around town, Al? They're putting up stalls down in the market district for the fair. I've heard the maids talk about it. There are flower shops opening up in the floating market."
This was no new thing, of course. She'd asked him this before, but Alastair had never really taken the time. She'd usually go alone, or with a maid. But for the past few years, she had not gone at all.
"I will," said Alastair. He wiped his eyes, and fetched a book, a very old and worn one with pictures, many of which had once been painted in absurd colors by a little pair of hands that had yet to learn how to hold a brush. He dragged the stool closer, placed his head in Tassya's lap and the book in her hands.
"Will you read me a story?"
✦✧✦✧
Never in all his time at the academy, or since he met him again at the hideout of Kinallen had Marches ever seen Ryffin so serious. The whole lot of them were, when they'd emerged from the Henris Manor.
Even now, as he sat facing him across the apothecary table up in the third level of his tower watching the alchemist work, hunched over the cauldron, he was grim. His sleeves were rolled up high, hair tied back and face misty from the fumes that issued from the bubbling pot as he prepared the special concoctions suggested by the healers.
So far in the means of fortification they'd planned and worked on the battlements, building portalways for the soldiers to use in case the stairwells were blocked. Then, a particularly formidable formula of poison to toss into the moat to render it uncrossable without melting one's flesh off. Next, a compound to keep the fire burning longer when arrows were to be set aflame. These had then been delivered to the generals, unbeknownst to the Royal Guard.
"Will these medicines help Lady Tassya?" asked Marches.
"It'll ease the symptoms, is all I can say. She's beyond the aid of sorcery in any case."
Despite being in charge of all sorcerous dealings around the city, there was naught he could do to help her case. Marches felt a bit helpless. He turned his attention to the more solvable problem. Before him was a map of the city, and another, of the ground level of the palace. His bejewelled fingers found one passage in particular.
"This underground tunnel worries me," he said. "We can't exactly block it off, for it can serve as an escape route if the situation calls for it. But it can very well become the entry point, leading the enemy right inside the palace."
Ryffin came over to take a look. "We won't have a chance to flee. This opens right at where the Lockefell river flows into the canals, quite possibly the least defensible position in the entire city."
"Then what do you suggest?"
Ryffin gave him a quizzical smile for a long moment, as though something like this had been in that clever mind of his for long.
"Why, follow in the footsteps of the masters of yore, of course." Ryffin gestured to the wall, where hung a portrait of a former Royal Sorcerer named Cazdon. The faded painting was of a gaunt-faced man with dark hair. Marches never quite understood why it had not been taken down, given the terrible end the sorcerer had met.
Marches winced. "Cazdon, eh? Well, he was stabbed to death by the Royal Guard."
"And do you know why?" said Ryffin, raising his eyes from the cauldron.
Marches didn't know. In truth, he tried not to delve too much into the details of the deaths of previous occupants of his post. But what hindered him from answering now was Ryffin's hypnotic gaze. He found it difficult indeed to look away from those deep, forest-green eyes, ethereal in the misty glow that rose from the bubbling and gurgling cauldron.
"I--no. I do not," he struggled to say. His tongue felt like it had turned into lead.
Ryffin studied him with hooded eyes for a moment, before he hooked the end of a wooden ladle to the front of Marches' collar and yanked him close. "I do wonder how you get any work done around here, given that you get distracted...so easily. Hm?"
Very soon, Marches would not be getting any work done indeed, because if Ryffin held him a moment longer he'd likely faint and fall to his death into that steaming pot, which would put a tragic end to his career, not unlike the unfortunate Cazdon.
The alchemist knew exactly what he was doing. A part of Marches did not want him to stop, the other absolutely wanted to sprint out of the tower.
Ryffin released him, pulling away to put out the burner and place a lid on top the cauldron. "Cazdon's tale can wait. Now let's go check out those tunnels first. See if they're in any good condition."
"Very well." Marches led Ryffin down to the ground level, almost reaching for the tower door. Then he stopped.
"It'll be for the best if we keep this business a secret from the Royal Guard," he said.
Ryffin shrugged. "I doubt you can do that. They're everywhere. A few portalways, poisons in vials-- that I can hide. But a whole damn tunnelway?"
Marches smiled at him over his shoulder. "I'm no skilled spy like those who work for Her Highness, but I do know for a fact that our enemies are more likely to eavesdrop on our doors, rather than guard the cellars of mead. And where are these tunnels located?"
"The cellars," said Ryffin, still not quite convinced. "that's all very good. The cellars are unguarded. But how do we get there without getting noticed?"
Now was his chance to un-do some of his stupidity he'd displayed so far in front of Ryffin.
"When there's a will, there's a way," said Marches, and went over to a bookcase carved into the stone wall. There sat a crystal ball at the bottomest shelf, hid within which there was actually a lever. He crouched and rotated it, in a combination of clockwise and counterclockwise movements.
The next moment, a panel of stone slid away behind a tapestry bearing the Royal Sorcerer's insignia. Marches lifted the tapestry. Inside the gap in the wall, an unlit set of stone stairs spiralled below into the dark.
"Well?" said Marches. "Not even the Royal Guards know of this, you know. Took me ages to figure out the combination anyway."
Ryffin smiled, eyes not on the passage, but at him. "It's wonderful."
Marches began to sweat. He tried to play aloof. "It's nothing, really. What is even the point of a castle if there aren't any secret passages hid by a bookcase? I might as well have opened my office in the fish market, right?"
"Right indeed," Ryffin said, stifling a laugh.
So far so good! Thought Marches and made to lean on the tapestry, completely forgetting there was no wall behind, and nearly fell through the stairwell-- if not for Ryffin grabbing a fistful of his robes.
Thus, Marches had once again reset his meter of stupidity in front of Ryffin.
✦✧✦✧
The tunnel that opened in the back of a cellar in the north wing of the palace was built of stone, leading away from the palace in a more or less straight-forward way for about a hundred paces. Then it began to descend, the walls lower and damper as it winded further underground. The flickering flame of the torches cast eerie shadows upon the walls as Marches led Ryffin through them.
The end of the tunnel was waterlogged upto the knees, the opening covered with a gridwork of metal wires. Through them, the river could be seen flowing into canals that travelled deep into the lower districts of the city.
"I'll need ritual chalk for marking the runes upon the walls for this enchantment," said Ryffin once they were back outside. "Got some?"
"No?" Marches was aghast. "Ritual chalks have been banned because of their narcotic effect on people."
"So you haven't got any..." said Ryffin, sounding rather disappointed.
As much as Marches would like to become the keeper of notorious magical items to wipe that look of disappointment off his face, he protested. "No sir! I would very much like to keep my job and my head upon my shoulders, thank you."
"You know, there's only one person beneath this roof who may know where I can find such questionable items."
Marches had a feeling he knew who Ryffin was talking about.
✦✧✦✧
"Aye, you can find ritual chalk down Ebon Street alright. Ten gold apiece," said Farren, looking up from where she sat with Hilda, trying to learn how to deflect sorcery.
"Tell the old coot that I sent you and maybe you'll get a discount--" she started, then seemed to hesitate. "Nah, scratch that. Don't mention me at all. Especially not his stolen boat. Missing, I mean."
"You do realise how big a risk this is? It's been banned for a reason!" Marches said so loudly that the others stared at him. They were up at the hall with the portraits of the previous leaders of the Silverhaart warriors. The soldiers of Kinallen had gathered around a table with Lieutenant Evander, going over their plans to rescue Commander Karyk.
"Don't worry," Farren assured him. "The Countess said the whole thing was a hoax anyway. The Dark Saints heads apparently had some bone to pick with the company which manufactured those ritual chalks, so they started this rumour about them being narcotic and got the Council to ban the chalks from the market. But guess what? That very night, ritual chalks were all over the Silver Knife Square because of those rumours. Made a fortune overnight, that company."
"But fear not. I can assure you, you could get higher with stale rye-bread than that powdery hogwash. So don't sweat it," she added hastily.
Marches looked at Farren with concern. "I'm afraid to even ask under what circumstances you found that out." He turned to Ryffin. "And what exactly are you planning to do with this majestic item?"
"Draw the runes, of course. I'm going to replicate the enchanted dark alleys of Silver Knife Square. Anyone dares enter the tunnels, we strike 'em in the dark."
Farren's eyes glittered mischievously as she grinned. "You genius bastard."
He did not like the looks of it. Worst of all, Ryffin mirrored her demeanour, just as excited to delve into that very illegal territory of Ancient Sorcery.
"Care to tell what that is supposed to be?" he asked.
Farren scooted over, making room for the two. "Then take your seats, sirs, for I am about to tell you a tale of blood and terror!"
Ryffin frowned. "Seems like my version of Cazdon's story is... different from yours."
"Perhaps. This one's coming straight from the Countess. Has a knack of telling stories, that lady. Anyway," she began, springing to her feet to stand before them. "It is said that Cazdon, a Royal Sorcerer from long ago, was an expert in Ancient Sorcery. He was accused of treason by the Royal Guard, and so the king kicked him out."
"As he should," said Linder from the table, clearly more interested in this tale rather than mulling over strategic plans.
"It was only an accusation though. There was hardly any proof." Farren continued. "And then Cazdon hides himself up in his mansion, building the enchanted dark alleys around his home, so that none can cross the impenetrable darkness to reach him. The Quarleen masks--it's said he created them for his family only. But one of his brothers betrayed him."
"Why, that's terrible!" said Hilda while her quill ran steadily on paper.
"The accusation of treason was half-true, though," Farren explained.
"Wait a minute, you just said--"
"So Cazdon's brother gives one of these masks to the king's Royal Guard. The young prince was suffering from a difficult disease, you see. Only Cazdon in all of Midaelia had the cure. Next, the Royal Guard infiltrated the enchanted alleys and raided his mansion one night to recover the vial of the medicine, but not without slaughtering Cazdon and his entire family first, and putting their heads on pikes!" In her excited pacing, Farren walked face-first into a wall.
"Calm down!" said Linder, getting to his feet. "You alright?"
"No! Listen." Farren rubbed her temple and continued. "And do you know what happened next? Immediately after they gave that medicine to the ailing prince, he died! That's right, Cazdon's severed head cursed the medicine so it all turned into poison! Silver Knife Square stands on his property today, named so because the Royal Guard who stabbed him to death is said to have wielded a blade inlaid with silver."
Ryffin squinted doubtfully at her. "In the version I read, there was not so much bloodshed though. There were no severed heads screaming curses, either. Maybe the Royal Guards got the wrong vial? I mean--"
"No, no," Farren insisted. "It was his revenge from beyond the land of the dead!" She sat back down, looking at them expectantly after her storytelling was finished.
Marches wanted to disagree, perhaps, for it was quite impossible for a deceased head to curse anyone--but a huge arm fell over his shoulder the next moment, knocking the air from his lungs.
"History repeats!" said Ryffin, his arm around him. "Another Royal Sorcerer now must pick up from where old Cazdon left off."
Marches tried to smile, which ended up looking more like a grimace. "I'm going to end up brutally murdered, aren't I?"
"Perhaps," said Farren, reassuringly. "But you're in luck. I'd packed my spare Quarleen masks with my things. You can use them to get in."
Ryffin turned to him, a gleaming smile stretched from ear to ear. "Let's do some shopping, my dear Royal Sorcerer."