The family of House Parbon ate in a quiet, if harmonious atmosphere. The Margrave ate the same thing he had with every meal—a simple steak, unseasoned, with water. His eyes fell upon the gray-haired woman beside his daughter, still eating quietly. “Is everything alright, Ridia?” the Margrave questioned.
“Oh,” she lifted her head, as though drawn from a daydream. “Oh—umm, yes. Everyone has been very kind to me here.”
The Margrave nodded. “I apologize that my son could not be here. I promise you that Elias will make it up to you as your fiancé.”
“He can hardly be—”
The doors to the room opened and Ridia flinched, cutting her sentence off. Argrave stood there, wearing the same gray leather armor as he had the past few days—it was clean now, though. His three companions stood just behind him. He scanned the room.
“Thought there’d be more than just us…” Argrave said hesitantly.
Reinhardt gestured to the chairs opposite Ridia and Rose. “Sit,” he commanded.
Argrave nodded without protest, then moved to sit. The Margrave took a piece of paper and stowed it away in his pocket, then adjusted some of his cutlery. Argrave hesitated to sit right next to Reinhardt, but eventually he swallowed and did so, sitting quite rigidly and politely.
He briefly looked at Rose of Parbon. He wasn’t particularly worried about her—he was sure he left a good impression, even if he wasn’t 100% confident he’d sold her on his ideas. Someone would need to be delusional to guess the truth about Argrave. No one would assume he was a different person entirely, even in a world of magic.
“Fill four plates.” the Margrave commanded a serving staff off to the side.
“Ah—three,” Argrave amended. “Galamon prepares his own food—he’s very particular. It would be impossible to sustain such a physique otherwise, no?”
The Margrave frowned, then amended, “Bring platters, let them serve themselves. Some are… larger.”
Argrave had no protest to this. He greeted everyone sitting at the table with silent gestures, then finally locked his gaze on the Margrave.
“So, what did you wish to talk to me about?” Argrave smiled.
The Margrave fiddled with his cutlery, then planted a fork in his steak. “I sent men to the Low Way of the Rose to verify your claims,” he began. “They’ve been… delayed.”
Anneliese frowned and tapped Argrave’s foot with hers. He didn’t turn his head, but he acknowledged her signal. This was something they’d devised in private. Reinhardt was lying, and her tapping her foot against his was their signal.
“I will accommodate you well as long as you are here,” the Margrave continued, ignorant of their exchange. “I bear no hostility towards you. Considering the plague and the war, I think it would be best if you stayed. Things are dangerous.”
“The patriarch of House Parbon is scared of disease and war? Never could have pictured that,” Durran interjected.
“Durran, let’s save the provocations for people who can’t command a legion of knights to swarm into here,” Argrave held out his hand to silence the man, then smiled pleasantly. “You may know that the Burnt Desert is a little… unsafe, shall we say? One might call it a hellish place. And by ‘one,’ I mean ‘everyone.’ A little danger makes life worth living, so I’ll be fine to leave as soon as you feel fit. Besides, I have places to be urgently,” Argrave added.
The Margrave leaned forward and placed both elbows on the table. “It is… in your… best interest… to stay in my castle,” he said awkwardly. Reinhardt was obviously trying to be subtly suggestive, but he was utterly terrible at it.
Argrave frowned and locked eyes with the Margrave. Unlike that staring contest they’d had long ago, the Margrave broke away first.
“Rest assured, I will not again mistreat you,” he added. “While I cannot say I will ever forgive what you have done to my daughter… she has.” He placed one big, gauntleted hand on her wrist. “And that is more than enough for me to set aside any grudge. You are yours will be guests of honor.”
Argrave was half-expecting Anneliese to tap his foot again, but he simply watched Reinhardt meet his gaze.
He wants me to stay, Argrave realized. What in the world? Why? He’s not aggressive, or mad, he’s just… I can’t make sense of this. I’m having dinner with someone who thinks I crippled his daughter, alongside that very daughter, and they’re trying to persuade me to stay?
Argrave looked to Anneliese for a moment, then turned back to the Margrave. “Well…” he swallowed. “I do have much to ask about the war. Do you think I could ask questions on that front?”
The Margrave took his hand off his daughter’s wrist, then said hesitantly, “I try to avoid discussing affairs of state at the family dinners…”
“It’s fine,” Rose interjected. “We rarely have guests, and I am not so fragile that I would collapse from a few where you speak of the war. You agree, Ridia?”
“Umm… I have no issue,” she said quietly.
“But it’s your mother’s…” he trailed off with a weak voice, then sighed. “Never mind,” he continued, voice cold once again. “I will answer what questions you have.”
Just then, the serving staff reentered, placing grand platters of food on the center. Argrave eyed the meatier parts of the table.
“Alright,” Argrave nodded enthusiastically, moving to get his own portion. “What are the big happenings of the last two months?”
“My brother was slain by Vasquer,” the Margrave said heavily, placing both his arms on the table.
Argrave paused before he touched the food on the table, feeling disrespectful. “What?” he asked, and when no answer came, continued, “That’s…”
Good for the rebels, he left that part unspoken. With no hostage, they had less power over Reinhardt.
“You have my condolences,” Argrave offered. “I didn’t know Bruno, but I know he was a man of character.”
“Hmm,” the Margrave grunted gruffly, something Argrave didn’t begrudge him.
“From what I know of your people and its culture… that must have weakened support for Vasquer greatly,” Anneliese pressed. “And swelled your own ranks with new supporters.”
Argrave looked at her curiously.
“That is true,” he said, voice dead and harsh as though he loathed that fact.
Anneliese nodded, lost in thought. Then, she continued, “And this plague—has it struck the north as severely as the south?”
Margrave Reinhardt shifted, frowning. “I cannot say with certainty… but people say it has been contained in the northwest.”
“And where did it begin moving across the south?” she pressed further. “From one point, or from many at once?”
With her pointed inquiries, Argrave caught onto what she was implying and stiffened. The Margrave was a bit slower and answered her question no more than what she asked. “I am unsure. It simply swept across in an unprecedentedly fast manner.”
“Like it was aided,” Argrave suggested quietly, and Anneliese lowered her head, point made.
Reinhardt turned to Argrave, expression slowly becoming more and more stern. “You suggest…” he trailed off, perhaps realizing the pointlessness of his question. He set his hand upon the table, slowly clenching it into a fist.
“Would Felipe… stoop so…” the Margrave couldn’t even finish his sentence, so intense was his rage.
“He would,” Argrave said with a bitter confidence. “That worthless piece of shit definitely would.”
The Margrave pushed away his plate of food, all appetite lost. His intense anger was slowly brought under control as he breathed steadily.
“With this happening… all the more reason for you to entreat your ally, Jast,” Argrave said. “Magic is the only solution for something like this. Get healers. Hell, ask for the Order of the Gray Owl’s help. Their neutrality does not forbid them from offering medical aid, and this is an incredibly dire situation.”
“How do you know the plague is dire?” Rose questioned. “You’ve been absent.”
“I’ve seen it firsthand in the northwest, back when it was in its infancy. I didn’t realize it would spread so far,” Argrave shook his head, lying easily. “The skin turns waxy, distorts into bumps. It causes organ failure, irrational behavior when it spreads to the brain… and even if it stops spreading, the person never recovers from the damage. Additionally, even if they heal, they continue to spread it, indefinitely.”
“…people say it is the wrath of Moder, the goddess of plague and rot,” Ridia contributed. “She is angry at the war.”
“Spread a deadly disease to protest a deadly war,” Durran noted cynically. “Very godlike. Fits with my experience of the idiocy of the gods.”
“It’s not from the gods,” Argrave shook his head. It’s born from man, with some meddling from Gerechtigkeit…
With everything being brought to light, it felt all the more urgent that Argrave leave. He wanted to stand up and run out. As he was consumed by that thought, he felt a hand on his own, and looked to Anneliese. He smiled lightly at her assurance and clenched her hand. The Margrave watched that exchange, though both of them were oblivious.
“I must go and talk to some people,” the Margrave stood. “I… your advice is sound, Argrave, and I will propose it to my council.”
“I did nothing at all,” Argrave raised one hand humbly.
“All of you… eat well. I apologize for my abrupt departure. Seek me out should you need anything. And your companion…” he stopped besides Galamon, who nearly stared Reinhardt in the eyes despite sitting. “Should you need it, you may replenish your rations. Ask my staff.”
“I’m sure he will,” Argrave smiled, and Galamon gave him a cold-eyed glance before nodding to the Margrave.
The Margrave left, some knights following him. Argrave turned back to his food. Consuming his thoughts was a strong desire to go and sort some of the information he’d been dealt.
Only a few things changed, yet it’s all spiraling…
