“…so, in time, I’ll need to return to them to officiate things. The date of the attack, who they’re collaborating with… so on and so forth,” Argrave explained to Brium, sitting across from him. Yarra stood behind him, hands behind her rigid back like she was a bodyguard.
They had returned from the oasis town of the southron elves. It was very late in the evening, and Argrave was quite hungry—he had not eaten since morning. Business came before that, though. As Florimund had instructed, Argrave had broken the sword in the desert. The southron elves were soon to migrate, travelling through the mountains to another home of theirs.
Anneliese had ensured Yarra did nothing out of place the whole while, and as far as Argrave could tell, no one suspected anything. The manifold uses of druidic magic were making themselves known already, though the Brumesingers were far from manifesting their full capabilities. Argrave needed to feed them souls. A strange need, truthfully, but considering the commonality of death, it was much better than your standard pet food.
“Hmm… the southron elves,” Brium mused. “It’s a little unbelievable, but those illusion magics… no one else can replicate them, certainly. They’ve caused the Vessels no end of trouble. How many were they?”
“If you mean ready to fight? Near two hundred,” Argrave exaggerated, attempting to bolster Brium’s confidence.
“Then… excellent work,” Brium leaned back into the chair. “But it doesn’t escape me that you used Yarra to bolster your personal wealth—those pets of yours. They’re certainly more for you than for my cause.”
“Well…” one of the Brumesingers poked itself out of Argrave’s clothes, and he pet its giant furry ears. “I’m no saint.”
Brium chuckled—it sounded fake. After, he raised his hand to his face. “I think I’ve figured you out.”
Argrave furrowed his brows, thrown off. The Brumesinger, no longer being pet, hid itself away once more.
“You’re testing the limits. I don’t think it’s of any genuine concern, presently,” Brium held a hand out, reassuring Argrave. “I’ll warn you, though. A limit broken before a Vessel will not result in merely a warning,” Brium leaned in. “It should not escape you that the punishment for any crime is death. Considering what I know…”
“I also know that you’re compelled to punish me. Not forced,” Argrave returned. “We’re doing great work together, so far.”
Brium stared down Argrave, running a hand across his coppery skin. Eventually he nodded. “You’ve done well. The Vessels have been looking for the southron elves for centuries. Not a single success, before you came along—only abandoned towns, ruined places. There has been little cause to hunt them in recent decades. Their mages are all dead and gone, and we seized and burned their books of spells. Nothing more remains of them to challenge Fellhorn’s authority.”
“Any predictions on when Aurum and Argent will make their move?” Argrave probed.
“They’re gathering guards,” the Lord of Copper answered idly at once. “Negating my influence in the city. Trying to stifle my income, my workers. Vessels beneath me are being tempted with wealth, power… but the core of my power isn’t in Sethia. I keep that which truly belongs to me in Cyprus. In here.”
“But when?” Argrave pressed. “I don’t want to be caught unprepared.”
“A week, most likely two,” Brium shook his head. “You have time to do more before the fighting.”
Argrave tilted his head. “Not planning on letting me closer into the machinations?”
Brium’s gaze intensified at that moment, as though challenged. “What are you implying?”
Argrave shrugged. “I just don’t think that you’re leaving things to chance with the tribals.”
Brium stared at him for a long while. “I have to speak with Yarra. Go, rest,” he finally said, pointing towards the door. “She’ll rejoin you in time. For now, do nothing.”
#####
Argrave stepped out of Cyprus a little relieved to be free of Yarra, though he was not pleased to be carrying around his own backpack once again. Between the three furballs roaming about in his duster and the backpack, he was hauling quite a large load.
“Let’s return to our room quickly. We have a little time to talk. Things are going well so far,” Argrave commentated, walking quickly down the road. He felt the old sting of the scars in his lungs.
He spotted someone ahead, wearing a set of baggy robes. They carried a large stick of sorts, the top of it wrapped it cloth. Argrave merely felt it was unusual, ready to pass it by. The person started to approach, though, and Galamon grabbed Argrave.
“That’s a weapon. Be cautious,” he urged, stepping ahead of Argrave.
Argrave kept his eye on the man. He questioned if they would simply pass him by, but the robed figure came to stand boldly before them. He didn’t lower his hood, but as Argrave stared, he started to recognize the person.
“You’re my saviors, is that right?” remarked Durran.
Argrave’s breath caught in his chest at once. Durran had quite an eye-catching appearance. He had a golden tattoo just below his eye, acting like an extension of his golden pupils, and a handsome, confident face that practically screamed ‘heartbreaker.’ His eyes had a certain wildness to them, and his grin never seemed to fade.
“The hell are you doing here?” Argrave whispered, looking around frantically. No one was near, but that meant little—they were in the middle of a wide-open road, and anyone could be watching.
“Well, I don’t really like talking through third parties. I like to confront my admirers directly,” Durran said, staring uncaringly.
His words confirmed that the southron elves had already talked to him. It had been such a short time, and Argrave hadn’t expected Durran to talk to him at all. The unexpected situation left him at a loss.
“You’re tall. They were right,” he nodded musingly.
“Yeah, great observation, hawk-like vision on you,” Argrave whispered, eliciting a chuckle from Durran. “Get the hell out of here. You maybe think there’s a reason I went to a hell of a lot of effort to avoid talking to you directly? If Brium sees us talking--”
“So you do know me,” Durran noted. “Pretty strange. I’m sure I’d remember meeting you.”
“You had too much to drink that night,” dismissed Argrave. “Forget this. Keep walking,” Argrave directed his companions, and then moved towards the gate of Sethia.
“Gebicca died when I last saw her. I was the last she spoke to, and I stumbled across her by pure chance. I’m pretty damned sure she’d mention any meeting with a weird looking party like you three,” Durran called out as they walked away.
Argrave paused. Durran strode back up to him.
“Let’s have a little date, us four,” he looked between them. “And don’t deny me. You’ve already given me a key to turn your lives upside down. I don’t think Brium would react kindly to the correspondence between you and my elven friends.”
“Probably kill you, too, now that you’ve got some suspicion he’s two-faced,” Argrave called out his bluff.
“I think I could get away with it,” Durran shrugged.
Argrave stared down at him, questioning if the man he knew was crazy enough to do something like this. The worst part was that Argrave wasn’t certain.
“You’re paying for our meals,” he eventually decided.
Durran grinned. “We’ll see about that.”
#####
Elias stared out into the distance, where the looming walls of Elbraille were not even visible in the all-consuming darkness. He and Stain sat in their carriage, moving through the night and towards the city. Their cavalry marched quietly towards the gates of the city, but there was a somber air throughout the whole party. The death of Bruno had affected more than simply Elias, he knew, but he needed to put on a brave front.
“You’re sure about this, Stain?” Elias questioned. “Can’t see more than a couple feet away. Maybe we should light things up. We have the—”
“How many times do I have to repeat myself?” Stain returned. “The guy in this city—or girl, I suppose, no need for me to be like that—they’re trying to manipulate the populace, stir them against Duke Marauch. If they wanted to do something against you, they’d want to do it in public. In daylight.”
“But what if they don’t?” Elias insisted. “This would be the perfect opportunity for them to strike.”
“If they had the strength to strike, they wouldn’t need to work up the people. The force inside can’t be strong. We’ve got the strange purple-eyed one watching for attacks—you’re safe, future brother-in-law.” Stain crossed his legs. “Trust me. This is the way to go. Why else did you bring me along, if not to get into the mindset of deplorable bastards?”
Elias ground his teeth. “Not the way I’d phrase things.”
“And that’s why I’m needed. If you can’t even think of saying nasty truths, you certainly can’t predict the nastiness Vasquer’s going to toss at us.” Stain shook his head. “You deal with the noble pomp, I deal with the ignoble reality—killer thing we’ve got going, here.”
“What about once we’re inside?” Elias turned. “I’m sure the Duke will welcome us, but once we’re inside… what then? There’s still someone trying to turn things against us. We won’t be safe.”
“We’ll have to win back the people.” Stain spread his hands out. “I’m sure red-haired, red-eyed you will have no problem with that. Give a speech, talk about how honorable you are. Wave your banner around. Mention your father. The name of Parbon has weight. The commoners will swoon at the mere sight of you.”
Elias swallowed, then moved back to the window. “Just… feeling pressured. This has to go right.”
Stain crossed his arms, saying nothing as the carriage moved steadily onwards. Inwardly, though, he was considering that the death of Bruno was a break for them, militarily speaking. Killing hostages was against all ‘noble sensibilities,’ and the northern nobles would not be so steadfast in their support of Vasquer. In turn, more southerners would be willing to support Parbon.
He kept it to himself, though. Another ignoble reality Stain had to deal with.
Elsewhere in the city, Induen sat, looking out through the window. Though he could not see the carriage moving by, his men had informed him that Elias, the son of Margrave Reinhardt, was moving into the city during the night. Induen could not provoke the crowd, and as the news of Bruno’s death spread to the people, support for Vasquer would be lessened.
Induen prodded the tip of a white-gold dagger against his finger. “I planned to deliver this dagger back into the Margrave’s heart, by hand,” Induen mused. “Prove that I repay my debts.”
The royal knights behind said nothing, fearing to provoke anger by sticking their heads above the cloud. They knew well when their master was in a foul mood.
“I am thinking it would be even better if this dagger was returned to the Margrave in his son’s coffin. I’d stab another heart, metaphorically speaking. A heart maybe even more vital to the Margrave than the physical one.” Induen looked at the gleaming enchanted dagger, twisting it about in his hands.
“It appears I must struggle with the young lion.” Induen set his dagger on the table. “We’ll carry out the plan tomorrow. The executions will continue as planned. I won’t give the boy the chance to work anything out. I’ll keep him trapped in the Duke’s castle, whittling away at him until he’s a knub. Waiting for a mistake.”
“As you command, prince Induen,” said the royal knights asynchronously.
